


Ford

by theshopislocal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark John, F/M, I did mention angst right?, John Whump, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Psychological Drama, ish...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 02:37:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7135157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshopislocal/pseuds/theshopislocal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He turns back round then and looks down at me, eyes curious. “Your name, W.S.S. Holmes.” That’s <em>not my name.</em> “Is it Walter? Or Wilbur? Maybe something really awful like, er,” he smiles wryly, “Willoughby? Winchester?”</p><p>I feel my face go blank as my body numbs over. “Scott,” I say, voice devoid of emotion. “My name is Scott.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trickybonmot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickybonmot/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For trickybonmot, as part of Holmestice Summer 2016.

Oh, god.

Oh, god.

_Oh, god-_

“Please, _please_ , let me go. I won’t-” I barely recognise my own voice, I’ve never heard myself so terrified, never _been_ so terrified, “-won’t tell anyone, I won’t call the police, just please, _please-_ ”

“No, you’d never call the police, would you? You’d never ask anyone for help if you thought you could handle it yourself - _you don’t fool me!_ ”

Oh, god, what is this place? Who are you? Who _are_ you? “I’m not- I’m not trying to _fool_ you,” _Who are you?_ “I don’t-don’t even _know_ you!”

He huffs a dry little laugh. God, why is he laughing? What the- “’Course you don’t. You’ve probably forgotten me - _deleted_ me.” Deleted? What on earth- “S’not like I ever mattered, not like I was ever anything more than a _bloody_ hanger-on.”

I think it’s a garage. No. No, not a garage. Too small for a car. Jesus, what is this place? What’s happening, what’s- “Please, _please-_ ”

My heart is doing something odd in my chest, like an arrhythmia or something. Oh Christ, am I having a heart attack?

His face scrunches up like he’s tasted something foul. “Oh, stop _begging_ , you tit. I don’t _buy it_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock? _Sherlock?_ Who the hell is- “I’m _not_ Sherlock!” It’s not me, it’s not _me_ \- “I’ve never even _met_ anyone called _Sherlock_.” _It’s not me!_ “Please, you have the wrong man-”

“That’s right, Sherlock,” Oh, _god_ , “you _are_ the wrong man. You were _always_ the _wrong man._ ”

Bloody h- what is he talking about? This doesn’t make any _sense!_ “Please, oh god, please, I’m _not-_ ”

“Stop it, _stop this!_ ” he’s shouting now, leaning in close to my face. I can feel his breath on my forehead. It’s warm, it’s making me warm, febrile, I’m- oh, god, what’s happeni- “Stop _lying_ to me! I know it’s you, I know who you are!”

I shake my head side to side, quick as a shiver. No, actually, it _is_ a shiver. I’m shivering, quaking where I sit, my arms pulling at the cuffs, I can feel my wrists chafing. God, where am I? Where _am-_ “No, no, you don’t! I’m not him, I’m not- Sh-Sherlock, I’m-I’m-” Oh, Jesus, it’s not me, it’s _not me-_ “I’m Scott Ford Williams, I’m thirty-four years old, from Dorset, I’m a schoolteacher-”

Another gust of breath against my face. “You’re _lying._ ”

The musculature in my neck seems to have seized up entirely now, I can’t shake my head. Can’t move at all. Frozen. “I’m _not -_ oh, god, I _swear_ to you, I’m _not._ ”

“Where were you, Sherlock?” I’m not, I’m not, I’m _not-_ “Hm? Four years. Four _years_ since I’ve seen you, four years since you _killed_ yourself-” what the _fuck?_ “-although, with you here now, seems that was a lark-”

No. Nonono. “I’m _not-_ ”

Another laugh, more like a bark, and he straightens up, stepping back a pace. I suck in a breath, and the air is cooler in the absence of his body heat. “Yes, of course, you’re _Scott Ford Williams_ , of _course_ you are-”

“I _am!_ ”

He shakes his head several times, then cocks it to the side. “Why, Sherlock?” Oh my god, I’m _not-_ “Why would you do this? Why would you disappear like that?” He throws his hands up, and I flinch backward. “Where would you even _go_?”

I shake my head again, can’t seem to stop. “I’ve been in Dorset, I’m _from_ Dorset. I’m in London visiting my cousin and-” shit, Maggie, “-oh, god, she’ll be worried sick, please, please let me go, I’ll do anything-” anything you want, anything you say, anything, _anyth_ \- “I’ll-”

He smiles and looks down at his feet before peering back up at me. “Oh, you’ll do anything will you?” His eyes narrow inimically, and I find myself pressing my back against the chair. “If I just let you go see your _cousin?_ ” Another barking laugh. “It’s not even a good _lie_ , Sherlock!”

Jesus f- “ _I am not Sherlock!_ ”

Silence.

… Oh, god. I yelled that last bit, I think. Screamed it. He’ll be angry, he _must_ be. But… Perhaps someone heard me, maybe someone will come, maybe they’ll-

He’s staring at me. Eyes boring into mine. His face is lined, particularly around the eyes and brow, a bit around the mouth. Bags under his eyes, dark circles too. The colour… I can’t tell his eye colour. Brown, blue, maybe grey? Oh, well done, Ford, I’m sure the police will have a perfectly easy time scouring London for a short, white, English kidnapper with brown, blue, or grey eyes-

“Know what?” His voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp like one of those old Japanese swords. “Fine.” Fine? What’s fine? Is he letting me go? Will he unchain me? Can I- “I’m expected at the clinic anyway. I’ll give you some time to think about it, shall I?”

He makes a quick volte-face like a soldier and approaches the roll-up door.

He hasn’t uncuffed me. Why hasn’t he uncuffed me?

He slides the door up and steps through, giving me a quick once-over before he starts to pull it back down.

No.

_NO._

“What? No, wait! Where are you going?” He’s leaving me. He’s leaving me here. Oh god, oh my g- “You have to let me out! You have to let me _out of here!_ ” He rolls his eyes and continues sliding the door down. “Please, just, just uncuff me, _please!_ ”

The door is nearly to the floor, all I can see is his shoes. “I get off at seven tonight,” I hear him say. His voice is muffled through the door, I can barely make it out. “I’ll see you round half-past, maybe eight.”

Oh, god no, please. I don’t even know what time it is, I don’t know how long he’ll be. My arms ache from being pulled behind me for so long, it’s dark and damp and dank, I can’t- can’t stay here, I can’t- “No, no,” the door clicks as it hits the ground, and I hear a snicking sound as it’s locked. “Please, _please, ple-_ ”

—

The click of a lock unlatching wakes me up. It’s dark, nearly pitch black, save for a line of dark blue light coming from the door in front of me. My back aches, can’t believe I fell asleep in a chair. Rather uncomfortable chair too, not the sort of quality I’d expect at a hotel-

… No. No, I’m not at a hotel. I… I was on the tube and then… then-

The metal door creaks as it’s lifted. I squint my eyes - Mum always told me not to squint, said I’d ruin my lovely face with crow’s feet, oh god, Mum, I miss you, I love you, I love you _so m-_ and I see shoes. Worn Oxfords, cheap, like mine. Then legs. Clean, tan trousers, a bit wrinkled. Torso - a dark blue jumper, same as earlier, collar of a white dress shirt poking up around the neck. Face -

… _Him._

Silver-blond hair is a bit ruffled, but he looks much the same as earlier. Same as when I woke up cuffed to this chair the first time. Same as when he screamed at me, laughed at me, barked at me, called me that name - Shane? Shirley? - god, I can’t remember, but it wasn’t mine, wasn’t me. I’m not who he’s looking for, who he wants, I’m no one, nobody, he doesn’t want me, I can’t answer his questions, don’t know anything, so- so- “You have to let me go.”

He stares blankly at me for a second then snorts, stepping into the room and flicking on a light switch. A fluorescent bulb flickers on almost directly above me. Storage unit. That’s where I am. A storage unit.

“Good evening to you, too,” he says, pulling the door closed behind himself.

Good evening? _Good evening?_ No, it’s not a bloody _good evening_ , this is- this is- “This is _wrong_ and, and-” he turns around and narrows his eyes at me, “-and criminal and-” another snort at that, and he folds his arms across his chest, “and…” oh, god, I can’t breathe, can’t get enough air, it’s too bright now and, and humid and cold and- “ _insane!_ This is- this is _madness_ , you must know this, you _must!_ I’m-” having a panic attack, heart attack, falling apart- “I’m not the man you’re looking for, I’m-”

“You’d know all about _insane_ , wouldn’t you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock. _Sherlock._

Head shaking again. Feels like it might shake right off my shoulders. “I’m _not Sherlock!_ I’m Scott F-”

“Ford Williams. Schoolteacher from, er, whatsit? Devon?”

He… he knows my name? He knows I’m not- “Dorset. I’m from- from Dorset.” And I’m never leaving there again. Annie warned me, she said London was awful, but Maggie begged me to come, told me she’d show me the best spots, find me a holiday boyfriend, take _care_ of me-

“Ah, yes,” he says, tilting his head back in a nod. “Visiting a _cousin_ here in London.” I dip my head, and he snorts. _Oh, no._ “You know, that’d be a good cover story,” oh, _Jesus_ , “if your, er-” he wags a finger at my face, “ _disguise_ were a bit better.”

 _Disguise?_ Have I tripped and fallen into a Bond film? “I’m not wearing a disg-”

“I mean, dying your hair red and growing a bit of stubble?” he interrupts, pitching his voice to carry over mine. “You seriously think that’s enough to make you - _you -_ unrecognisable?”

Christ’s sake, have I got a secret twin or something? _Me?_ With the curly hair and slanty eyes and freakish face? “I don’t-”

“It’s shoddy, Sherlock,” he shakes his head in condescension, “shoddy work, at best. Really, I’ve-” he barks out another laugh - god, I _hate_ that sound, “-I’ve come to expect better from you,” he finishes, peering into my face with squinted eyes.

Oh, god, please. “Please, _please_ , I’m not- I’m _not-_ ”

His face goes blank, eyebrows setting low. “You won’t convince me, Sherlock,” he says, and his voice is a low rumble that sits like lead in my stomach. “You’ve convinced me of enough lies,” _what?_ “I won’t fall for another.”

Lies? What lies? What- “Please, I-I’m not-not-”

“Did you know about her?”

…What? _Her?_ What _her?_ Did I know- “About who?”

His jaw clenches for half a second - long enough for me to notice the muscle jump in his jaw and press myself back against the chair. “ _Mary_ ,” he says, and it sounds like a curse. “Did you know about her.”

Mary? “I don’t- I don’t…” Mary, Mary, Ma- …Mrs. Edgeworth? “Th-the only Mary I know is the old florist who lives up the street from me, Mrs. Edgeworth. I don’t- is that who you mean-”

“God _damn_ it, Sherlock, stop this! _Stop it!_ ” he bellows, and I flinch, curling my head down over my torso. The movement pulls on my wrists, and I feel something warm and wet trickle down the side of my hand. “I know it’s you, I _know_ it is, so tell me,” he leans in close to my face, “tell me right now,” won’t look up at him, can’t look up at him, “ _tell me the truth!_ ”

A sob wrenches from my throat, and I cough and sputter. “Oh god, oh god please, d-don’t hurt me. Please, please, I- I-” A snippet of dialogue from Annie’s favourite police procedural pops into my head: _Abductors think of their captives as_ objects _; sometimes reminding an abductor that you’re_ human _is your best protection._ I shake my head again - he knows I’m human, knows I’m a person, just - _fuck -_ the _wrong_ person.

“I’ve got family back home,” I whisper, lowering my chin to my chest, “and-and my students, there are people-” I lick my chapped lips. I can feel the outline of my lip balm in my pocket and desperately wish I could grab it. Lip balm - such a silly thing to wish for, when it’s entirely likely that this man will _kill m-_ “people who need me, people who will- will notice if I’m not there-”

The man smiles, and it looks crooked and wrong. “Oh, right. Of course. Your back story, yeah?” He nods with his lips pursed, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “Alright, go on then, tell me about your-” a breathy laugh that makes me shiver, “-your _family._ I’d love - absolutely _love_ \- to hear about them.”

“I-…” I can tell it’s sarcasm, and if not for the fact that he’s demanding I answer his nonsensical questions, I’d assume he’d rather I didn’t speak at all. But… _remind him you’re human._ “There’s my-” I swallow, and my throat feels tight, “my sister.” _Annie._ I love you, Annie, I love you, I love you, I love y-

Another barking laugh, this one a bit heartier than the others. Why is that funny? “Sister? Oh, yeah?” I peer up at him and am surprised to find his amusement almost entirely genuine, save for a slight hard edge in his eyes. I nod once, and he cocks his head to the side. “What’s she like then?”

“I-” Can’t tell if he really wants to know. Can’t read him at all, really, I… God, I want to go home. “She’s an artist.”

He huffs a laugh and squints. “Oh, an artist,” he says, and it sounds almost conversational, like we’re new mates met round the pub, “how lovely.”

A sudden violent shiver starts at my tailbone and travels up my spine. “Y-yes.” He steps closer, looking down at his feet and nodding. “She’s a- a painter.” I press my back so hard against the chair I can feel the slats making indentations in my skin through my shirt and vest. “M-mostly acrylics-”

“Acrylics,” he repeats, still looking down, and his voice is a low rumble. He’s close to me now, so close I can feel the heat emanating from him, and it feels angry, _vicious._

“Y-y-yes,” I stammer out through the chattering of my teeth, “but-but she’s worked a bit with o-oils as well-”

Suddenly he’s bent over, face bare inches from mine. “ _I don’t give a toss about your fake fucking sister!_ ”

 _Jesus._ I whimper and turn my head sharply to the side, a vain attempt to get as far away from him as possible. “Oh god, oh god please, I’m sorry!” My eyes burn, and I feel snot congealing in my nose. “I’m sorry! Please, I’m sorry!” I yell out, shudders racking my entire body.

He leans closer, and I squeeze my eyes tight, pushing tears down my cheeks. “What are you sorry for!”

“Everything,” I say in a fervent whisper, “ _anything_ , anything you say, I’ll do-I’ll do anything you say, please.” I can feel my heart beating, and it’s an odd sensation. Strange, really; our hearts are always beating, so why do we almost never feel them? “Please. Please… I’m _sorry_.”

He’s silent for a long moment, and I feel an aching tension rising in my shoulders. There’s a sudden gust of cool air, and I know he has stepped back. I lick my lips - they’re burning at the corners, where my salty tears collected - and hazard a glance at his face. He looks… stricken. His eyes are wide, almost manic, and his head shakes side to side, seemingly of it’s own accord.

“Why-” he cuts himself off sharply and clenches his jaw for a split second. “Why are you doing this, Sherlock? Why are you…” His eyelashes flutter, and he looks… _hurt_. My eyes widen in incredulity; _he’s_ hurt? _Him?_ “Why are you doing this?” he whispers.

There’s a glassy sort of haze in his eyes, and for a second, they shine a deep, opaque blue. It occurs to me suddenly that this man is not a professional, maybe not even a criminal at all. This man is… _mad._

I’ve no idea if that’s better or worse.

I shake my head. “I’m not-… I’m not doing anything. I swear it, I just…” _Let me go. Please, you have to let me go._ “I just want to go home.”

His eyes narrow slightly, the manic edge disappearing and leaving him looking crestfallen. “You just want to go home,” he murmurs, and his eyes - blue, definitively blue - bore into mine. I want to look away - _get_ away - but the moment feels wrought, heavy with something I can’t understand.

“Yes,” I whisper, and nod as calmly as I can. “Yes, please.”

He continues to stare at me, fixated, until I get the feeling he’s not seeing me at all. I nearly snort at that; of course, he isn’t seeing _me_ , he doesn’t know who I _am._ If he’s seeing anyone, it’s this- this _Sherlock_ person. Sherlock, who is dead. Sherlock, who killed himself. Sherlock, who _isn’t me_.

Then, he smiles. It’s an odd smile, not hard-edged or sarky like they have been before, but sad, almost… wistful.

“I want to go home, too. Sherlock.” My eyes flutter closed at the name, then snap back open when he continues. “But, see,” he takes a deep, slow breath and swallows, “see, there is no home for me.” He looks down at his feet again, and I frown. “Not anymore.”

“I-” No home? As in- “You’re-” a vagrant. A _mad_ vagrant. Not forty-eight hours in London, and I’ve been abducted by an insane transient. _God_ , I want to go home, want to go home, want home, home, home, h-

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, the words tumbling out before my brain has a chance to filter them. “I’m- I’m very, very…” I trail off for a second, swallowing once, twice, three times. “I’m sorry.”

He makes an odd choking sound, and it’s only when I peer into his face that I recognise it as a scoff. “No you’re not,” he says, and the conviction in the statement - the _condemnation_ , really - widens my eyes.

I blink rapidly, the burn of tears dissipating into a dull itch. “Yes, I-”

“You’re completely incapable,” he states plainly, and I flinch back, shaking my head. “Entirely,” he adds.

We stare at one another, him with an air of expectancy, and me flapping my lips like a fish. I’ve no idea what to say, don’t think there’s anything I _can_ say. After an indeterminate amount of time, he looks off to the side with a crooked smile. “But that’s fine,” he says, and nods once. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

He turns around and steps towards the door, and I- I can’t, can’t stay here, he can’t leave me here, he _can’t_ \- “Please no, I- please!”

He doesn’t turn round, doesn’t look back. “I’ll bring you some breakfast. Still like blueberry scones, yeah?”

Scones? _Scones?_ “I-”

“I’ll get you a cinnamon one then.”

No, no, you have to let me out, you have to let me _out of here!_ “No, please, I-…”

He turns his head to the side, and his jaw looks razor-sharp in profile. “I’m not letting you go.”

“I-…” What do I say? What do I _do?_ What… what- “I need the facilities,” I murmur, looking down at my lap.

He’s preternaturally still for a moment, then he bends quickly to pull up the door and steps through. When he turns round, his face is stony, expression indecipherable. “It’s only transport,” he says, tone inflectionless, and _god_ , what does that even _mean?_ He reaches a hand above his head to grip the door, the other hand reaching inside and feeling along the wall til it happens on the light switch.

“Hold it,” he says blankly, and flips the switch. The door comes down with a clank, and I am again immersed in darkness.

—

 _“_ What exactly are you suggesting?”

Ugh, that _tone_.

In the forty-two odd months Sherlock has been… _abroad_ , I cannot help but admit I have come to - I feel myself grimace - _miss_ him. Unsurprising, really; aside from being family, there’s the fact that he’s (somewhat) willing to take on those cases which require the legwork I find so odious, he puts Mummy in a much better mood than my presence alone does, and he is, of course, quite adept at minimising organised crime within the Greater London area. Really, there’s quite a lot to miss about my wayward little brother.

And yet, that _tone._

I roll my eyes, certain that he can sense my doing so even from his location, roughly 1500 miles away. “I would like to take you into protective custody-”

“No.”

 _Quelle surprise._ I take a moment to try to recall the last instance in which he responded favourably to any sentence I began with the words ‘I would like’. Nothing comes to mind.

I sigh heavily into the handset. “It’s Moran’s board, Sherlock. He knows you’re alive-”

“Then why hasn’t he moved on John?”

I clench my jaw, then sigh again. Always so combative. “Perhaps he has.”

There’s a brief silence, during which I can practically feel his rising tension buzzing down the line. “What do you mean _perhaps he has?_ ” he demands, doing an admittedly quite accurate facsimile of my voice. I grimace. “You’ve had eyes on John since the moment I left, haven’t you?”

My eyes fall closed in exasperation. “Sherlock-”

“If John is in danger, Mycroft, I-”

Another sigh. I’m feeling rather winded now. “John is perfectly safe, Sherlock, I’ve made sure of it,” I say flatly, inserting enough confidence in my tone to calm him; I can hear the growing anxiety in the cadence of his breath, though he’s doing an admirable job of trying to mask it. “But that doesn’t mean that Moran hasn’t already established counter-surveillance.”

He snorts inelegantly, and I frown, twirling a paper clip between my thumb and forefinger. “Then there’s nothing to worry about, is there.”

Nothing to worry about? What foolishness is this? “Sherlock-”

“If Moran knew I was alive, he’d try to draw me out,” he says, the timbre of his voice cut with a condescending edge, “which would necessitate a threat to John’s life, not _counter-surveillance._ ” He spits the phrase as if it were ludicrous, nigh on _laughable._ “We already know Moran is watching him-”

“ _Sherlock_.” My voice is heavy, tone brooking no room for argument.

“ _What._ ”

Ugh, there’s that _tone_ again.

Genius though my brother certainly is - that is, compared to the dull, slack-jowled masses with whom we must unfortunately engage - he never fully outgrew the childlike naivety that so often upended his logical faculties as a boy. I recall the infinite chess games we played as children, how he sacrificed all his pawns, impugned castling, forgot to cross-check, walked his king for days on end. And was always surprised and churlish when he _lost._

I shake my head in lieu of sighing. _“_ Moran knows that you’re alive, Sherlock. For god’s sake, Moriarty’s entire web has crumbled in the span of a few years, how could he not suspect your involvement?”

A frustrated noise crackles out of the earpiece. “Fine, he knows I’m alive, what does it _matter_?” _It’s only a pawn, Mycroft, what does it_ matter? “He hasn’t threatened John - he _can’t_ threaten John, and John’s the only bargaining chip in his possession.” _I could crush you without any pawns at all, Mycroft_. “If anything, this is _my_ board, I’ve had him in check for over a year-”

Cross-check, brother dear. Don’t forgot your cross-check. “Not _check_ , Sherlock.” I pause for effect in that way I know he deplores. “… _Stalemate_.”

The silence from the line is thick and heavy, a bitter miasma. I can see Sherlock’s face in my head, blank in a pointless attempt to veil his confusion. Another fatal flaw in his game: he’d rather make a blunder than ask for help. Silly boy.

I bring the mouthpiece a scant few millimeters closer to my mouth and lower my voice the few decibels required to ensure Sherlock listens closely. “The only way to gain the upper hand on Moran,” I begin, returning his condescension to him tenfold, “is to find and capture his as-yet-unidentified accomplice. A feat which you have _failed_ to do, I might add-”

“I have leads,” he interjects, tone petulant. Ah, yes, there’s the king walking.

“Which we both know will be dead ends like the rest,” I respond sharply. “There is no recourse that way.” I hear a tiny rustle of fabric and surmise that his posture has slumped. “But you cannot return to London,” I murmur, softening my voice. I learned very young not to gloat at my brother’s losses; not only is the act boorish and inelegant, but it would often preclude Sherlock from playing. And though he very rarely won, he played with a riveting unpredictability, a constant stream of unexpected brilliancies. “I don’t have the resources to put an MI5 detail on John _and_ you _and_ Mrs. Hudson _and_ Lestrade,” I continue, tone circumspect, “and even if I did, Moran’s counter-surveillance would almost certainly take notice-”

“Assigning me a detail would be pointless as the blundering buffoons in your employ would only draw attention to my presence, and-”

And there’s the churlishness. To think I _missed_ him. Perish the thought. “Sherlock-”

“And Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson don’t come into it at all, they’re no longer under threat-”

Cross-check. “But if you show your face in London, they _will be_.” I sense him preparingto walk his king, and I continue before he can speak. “You cannot go back, Sherlock.” _No gloating_ , I tell myself, _keep him in the game._ “You’ve eliminated every aspect of Moriarty’s web that you could - financial, legal, executive - you’ve done _well_ , Sherlock, truly-”

“Don’t patronise me.”

Yes, well. Now that I think about it, I suppose he was _always_ churlish, whether I won or not. “But Moran’s accomplice presents an unknown, one which we cannot abide.” I pause briefly, giving him a moment to assimilate. “ …It’s your turn, Sherlock, yes,” I say, and I know he recognises the words from the innumerable times I said them to him at endgame, “but it’s not your board.” And the much dreaded question: “Do you see why.”

There is a short, pregnant silence, before I hear him suck in a short breath. “… I have no legal moves.”

I nod my head, my lips tightening in unbidden sympathy. After all, a brilliancy is still a loss for someone. “Stalemate.”

Another pause and then an odd scratching sound, which takes me a full five seconds to identify as him rubbing a defeated hand across his face. My lips purse further.

“I do have leads,” he says.

I sigh again, unable to contain it. Another flaw - perhaps a _fatal_ flaw: Sherlock never knows when to forfeit. “Sherlock-”

“It’s a thin possibility, I’ll admit that,” he says, and his voice is wavering with a sort of urgency I have rarely heard from him. It sets my teeth on edge, “but there’s a lead in London that I can-”

I shake my head. “ _Sherlock-_ ”

His makes a short, guttural noise, and his voice rises in both pitch and volume. “If you take me into protective custody now, I will _rot_ there. … This isn’t _chess_ , Mycroft. Stalemate is not an acceptable endgame.”

I flinch away from the handset and rub the back of my hand across my forehead. He isn’t wrong, of course. There’s very little he can accomplish from the secured environment of a safe house - at least, as pertains this mission. But Sherlock is a _king_ , and I will not allow him to sacrifice himself like a pawn. If castling is the only way to protect him, then castling it shall be.

I bring the receiver back to my ear. “You said it yourself, Sherlock, you have no legal moves.”

Another long pause, this one tinged with the electrical hum of Sherlock’s undiluted focus. He’s thinking. Plotting. _Planning._

Even half a world away, I can sense it, _feel_ it - like the eerie calm before a hailing storm, or the tide pulling a mile out before an impending tsunami. Like the short breath he took between ‘check’ and ‘mate’ the first time he beat me, the day I realised that every bit of my pride and joy sat in the tiny palm of this waifish, flighty, hellion of a little boy.

He lets out a tiny huff, nearly a laugh, and I know he has me mated. “Then perhaps it’s time for an _il_ legal move,” he says.

Ah, yes. _This_ is why I missed him.

—

“Brought you that scone.”

 _I hate you._ “I need the loo.”

He looks over his shoulder at me as he pulls the door down. “Ah, demanding this morning, are we? You didn’t even say ‘please’.”

 _I_ hate _you._ “ _Please_ ,” I say flatly, and for the first time, it isn’t sincere. “I need the loo.” When I asked for the facilities last night, it had been a ploy to see if he’d uncuff me - failed, of course. But the past two hours - perhaps more, perhaps less, not as if I’ve any clue as to the time - have been almost excruciating. My thighs and abdomen ache from the constant tension of clenching to prevent wetting myself. About an hour ago, I thought I might just, well, _go -_ figured he might let me out if I made a foul enough mess. Then it occurred to me that he might _not_ let me out, might leave me here, locked in a tiny room with my own stink, or worse, get angry and try to kill m-

Something small and slightly sharp hits me in the chest and falls down to my lap. I flinch away for a second, then - upon realising I’m still thankfully alive - look down at the small shiny object.

It’s a keyring. There are two keys on it (one regular sized and one quite small), as well as a carabiner and a little laminated label. The label is handwritten - _*1268242#,_ presumably the code to get into the facility - and the carabiner’s got a little inscription that reads simply, _Big Yellow - Battersea_.

Well. I’m certainly glad to know where I am, not that it does me any g-

“Uncuff yourself.”

I flinch at the gruff command and look up at the man. He looks much the same as he did yesterday - moderately well-dressed, furrow-browed, clenched jaw, and blank impassive eyes that I can’t get a read on. I swallow once, twice. “I-I can’t, I-” glance down at the keys in my lap, “my hands are behind my back, I can’t-”

He snorts and folds his arms over his chest, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “Oh, yes, of course,” he says, the sarky edge back full force. “You couldn’t _possibly_ know how to get out of handcuffs. Come off it, Sherlock.”

For Christ’s sake- “ _I’m not-_ ” God, what’s the _point?_ I’ve already said it a hundred times, will he suddenly believe me if I say it once more? A hundred times more? I shake my head. “I don’t know how to unlock them.”

He stares blankly at me for a second, then shakes his head with an odd smile. “Well,” he says and reaches behind himself - back pocket, I think - pulling out a — Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, _oh Jesus fucking oh my g-_ “why don’t you figure it out?”

It’s a gun. A fucking _gun._ ( _Breathing too quickly, got to slow down_ ) What- why- how does he have a gun? ( _Can feel my heart beating, too fast, too fast, like a hummingbird_ ) Who on earth would give this man - _this man_ \- a bloody _gun_? I don’t- it doesn’t even-

( _Odd sound, like a high-pitched whine - it’s coming from me, from me, from_ me) Oh, god. I… I’m going to die here. He’s going to kill me.

“Take. Off. The cuffs.”

My voice seems to be trapped somewhere in my throat, and I cough, gag a bit before choking out, “Oh god, please, please don’t, _please_ , I can’t- I- I don’t know _how!_ ”

“Figure. It. Out,” he bites out, and his tone is menacing, terrifying, as he brings the gun closer to my face. I lean back as far as I can, want to turn my head away but I can’t. The metal is shiny, the hole, the- the _barrel_ is pitch black inside, the whole thing looks heavy, but he’s holding it in one hand and it isn’t shaking. His finger rests on the trigger, _his finger is on the trigger and-_

My entire body flashes hot, then cold, then… nothing. I feel nothing. I feel… _nothing._

It’s something that used to happen to me a lot, as a child: _Depersonalisation_ , the doctor called it. I’d always had trouble sleeping, and if I went long enough without, I would suddenly find myself… _separated_. Floating above my own body, looking down at myself as I went about my chores on autopilot or answered questions in class by rote. I watch myself now. My eyes look odd - blank like a zombie or a- a _husk_. My shoulders shift awkwardly - what am I doing? Oh, I see. My cuffed hands pull to the side, my left shoulder lowering to an odd angle as my hands appear at the right side of my waist. I splay my fingers wide and move my thighs, jostling the keyring until it slides down into my open hands. I pull my hands back behind myself and watch as I fumble with the smaller key. I nearly drop it four different times before I feel slide into the lock, and then…

_Click._

The cuffs unlock, and suddenly I am back inside my own body, my own head.

“There we are,” the man says. “That wasn’t so hard.” He’s got an odd sort of smile on his face, almost… _fond_. A wave of nausea hits me at the thought. “You can do your business now,” he says, and lowers the gun.

I go lightheaded as my lungs expand, and it occurs to me that I may have forgot to breathe for a moment there. I swallow and shake my head. “I-” my voice is raspy, like I haven’t spoken in days. I harrumph awkwardly and continue. “But I need-”

The man rolls his eyes and uses his gun to gesture vaguely at the wall behind me. “It’s a grimy storage unit, I doubt you’re the first bloke to have a slash in here. Go on. You can turn round, if you like.”

Oh _god_. I look up at him imploringly, but he only raises an expectant brow. I feel my posture slump, and I dip my head in a nod.

I attempt to stand up, fail. My legs feel odd - shaky and numb - and I place my hands on the seat of the chair on either side of my bum and leverage my way up. I sway a bit upon standing, my vision whiting out for a second and a loud buzzing sounding in my ears - head rush. Out the corner of my eye, I see the man take a tiny step forward and reach out a hand as if to steady me. I flinch back, and his wayward hand falls.

I stumble a few steps toward the back of the unit. Staring at the wall, I find that I’m glad not to look at the man, but also terrified by the vulnerability. It feels a bit like standing on the beach with my back to a riotous ocean.

I fiddle with my belt and flies, starting when I notice the reddish-brown residue on my hands. Blood. My hands are smeared with it, and it’s caked into the divots at my wrists.

Fishing myself out of my trousers and pants, I try not to hyperventilate as it takes an embarrassingly long time before I actually start to go. I can feel his eyes on my back.

I finish quickly, ignoring the light spatter of piss on my shoes and bottoms of my trousers, tuck myself back in, zip up, and slowly turn back round. I’m not sure what I’ll see when I do - will he have his gun trained on me again? Will he be amused at the mess I’ve made of myself? Angry?

Oh.

He’s turned to the side, his body in profile, and his head is tilted downward and turned even further away. I can’t see his expression, but his posture is a standard show of deference to my privacy. That’s… unexpected.

I swallow once, brow furrowed, and clear my throat to draw his attention. He looks up at me, and his cheeks and neck are ruddy. He harrumphs as well and tilts his chin toward the chair.

“Sit down,” he says, and his voice is gruff and a bit… awkward?

I approach the ( _hateful_ ) chair, and seat myself. I watch warily as he reaches into his back pocket - the other one this time - and force myself not to flinch as he chucks something at my chest.

Glancing down at it, I see it’s a… scone?

“Eat,” he says, folding his arms over his chest, and he looks almost… nervous? No, _eager_. Like he’s dying to feed me up. God, that’s ridiculous, doesn’t even make any _sense_. What do you want from me? What am I _doing_ here? He’s not mentioned calling my family for a ransom, not mentioned money at all, doesn’t even seem to know who I am, doesn’t seem to actually want to kill me - gun aside, that is - he’s bringing me bloody _scones_ , for fuck’s sake!

“I-I don’t-” understand, why are you doing this? Who are you? What do you want? _What do you want?_ “Please, I-”

He huffs out a long sigh, chin dropping to his chest, and shakes his head. “Bloody hell, do I seriously still have to do this?” he says and looks up at me. “Make you eat? Bandage you up? Take _bloody_ care of you?”

Bandage me up? Take _care_ of me? What is he even- “Wh-what? I- no, I-”

“ _Eat_.”

“I-…” Fuck this. _Fuck this_. Is that what he thinks? That he’s _taking care_ of me? That it - _this_ \- is all fine so long as he feeds me scones and lets me have a waz every few days? _Fuck. This._ “No.”

He makes an almost comical expression of surprise, then narrows his eyes at me. I feel a shiver start in my shoulders and viciously suppress it. “No?”

I swallow around the sudden dryness in my throat. “N-no. I _won’t_. I won’t-” Fuck, his hand is inching toward the gun in his back pocket. Fuck, fuck, _fuck-_ “I won’t do as you say. You’ll…” Oh, god. This is it, then. Jesus, I’m gonna die in a storage unit in fucking _Battersea_ , with piss all over myself. Of course, I am. Of fucking course, I- “You’ll have to- have to kill me.” _Oh, god._

His hand freezes. Scratch that, actually. His whole body freezes. He’s stock still, preternaturally so. And then… his shoulders start to shake, slightly at first like a tremble, and then harder. Then his belly is shaking, too, and he’s- he’s laughing. He’s laughing. He’s bloody _cackling._

Oh. My. God.

“You- you-” he stutters, interrupting himself with terrifying peals of laughter. “You’re already _dead_.”

… No. No, I’m not. _Sherlock_ is dead. _I’m_ alive. Unless… Unless he means… “Wh- no. Oh god _no_ , please, _please-_ ”

“Suit yourself,” he says with a smile, then approaches me.

Oh, god. “No, _no_ , please, no-” fuck it, “ _help!_ ” I scream, “ _Someone help! Please!_ ”

He rolls his eyes around a glare and wraps his arms around me, almost like an embrace. “Oi, shut it, you. I’m just putting the cuffs back on.”

I shudder against his chest, leaning back, turning my head away, trying to get as far from him as I can. His scent is filling my nose - he smells… clean. Oddly so. Too clean, really, like a hospital. “Please don’t, please,” I whisper, sucking up my courage to lean in close to his ear, my cheek pressed against his. “I told you, I won’t tell anyone,” my breath is humid in the sliver of space between my mouth and the crest of his ear, “I won’t, I swear it, I’ll never say a word, just-”

I feel the cuffs click into place, but he doesn’t move back. Instead, his fingers encircle my forearms, just above my wrists. I feel him sigh into my hair, and I shiver. “I won’t let you go, Sherlock.”

Oh, god, stop it, _stop it!_ “I’m _not-_ ” There’s no _point_ , no point at all. I pant for breath for a second, then lick my lips, my tongue bare millimeters from his face. “I’m not worth anything.”

I feel him tense with confusion before he leans back. “What?” he asks, looking bemusedly down into my face.

“I’m not worth anything,” I repeat, looking down at the scone on my lap. It’s blueberry, not cinnamon. “I don’t have money, none of my family has money, you won’t get anything for me-”

“I don’t want money.”

I can hear the irritation in his voice and keep my head down. “…Then what do you want?”

He doesn’t respond for a long moment, and I see him step back out of the corner of my eye. The metal door slides up again, and I don’t bother looking up as he steps outside. Does _he_ even know what he wants? Does he even want anything at _all_? Perhaps he’s too far gone, too mad, to want for anything. Maybe… Well, maybe it’s hopeless.

“I’ll be back round six-ish,” he murmurs, and my shoulders slump. “I’ll bring something for your wrists.”

Darkness again.

—

**END PT. 1**

—


	2. Chapter 2

“Hello, there. Brought some supplies.”

I glance up and past him, my brow furrowing. Usually when he opens the door, there’s only darkness behind him; I had assumed that the unit was enclosed in a building. Today there’s a bit of a blue tinge to everything, and I can just barely make out a narrow black road and another row of units a little way off. So we’re outside then. Huh, that’s almost funny, isn’t it. My freedom is just beyond the metal door, barely a meter in front of me.

He steps inside and pulls the door down, slinging a worn leather bag from his shoulder. He’s never brought a bag before. I shudder. Doubt I want to know what’s in it.

He crouches down then, and unzips the bag, then halts his motion and looks up at me. His eyes are that odd combination of manic and eerily blank that I’ve become accustomed to. His brow furrows, and I wonder what he’s thinking, what he sees when he looks at me. Well, I know _who_ he sees, but… I must look something awful. I don’t think I’ve slept more than an hour at a time since that first day, I know my posture is slumped and defeated, I can feel the grease in my hair accumulating at the base of my skull, and I can only imagine the state of my face. I stare back at him with as much defiance as I can muster. It isn’t much, I don’t think. I’m so tired.

“Oh, what,” he says with a bitter smile, and reaches into his sack. “Not talking to me now?” he pulls out a small white box and stands up, stepping toward me. I flinch back. “That’s rich, seeing as I’ve been talking to your bloody headstone for four years.”

My eyes flutter closed, and I slump forward again. He eyes me warily, then comes to stand behind me. I know I should be afraid - what’s he doing back there? - but I can’t even summon the energy to tremble.

I feel his hands touch my forearms and slide down, pushing the cuffs as far down on my hands as they’ll go. It’s uncomfortable, and I suck in a pained breath. He pauses at the sound, then I hear a click and the squeak of a plastic hinge - he’s opened the box. Oh, god, what is he doing? What is he going to do? What’s-

“Ah!” A stinging sensation sluices across my wrists, followed by an odd sort of bubbly feeling. My hands feel wet and cold. It’s… it’s a familiar feeling, but I’m not sure wh-

I recall my unfortunate forays into sports as a child, skinning my knees and elbows on the pitch when I inevitably fell down. Da had always said I had the body of an athlete; he’d pat my back as he covered me in plasters and tell me that I only needed to work on my coordination. Then he’d wad up the rubbish and put the cap back on the bottle of-

… _Hydrogen peroxide_.

That’s what he’s pouring onto my wrists - hydrogen peroxide. He’s… he’s treating my wounds?

_Do I seriously still have to do this?_

_Make you eat?_

_Bandage you up?_

_You were always the wrong man._

_Been talking to your bloody headstone-_

“I’m not dead,” I say, the words falling from my lips before I’d even consciously thought them. I shake myself - it’s pointless, stupid, silly to try to argue with a mad man. He won’t believe me, won’t be convinced, said so himself. But then, what other option is there? Just sit here and wait for him to kill me?

“Well, that bit’s obvious by now, isn’t it,” I hear him say, just as I feel a smooth dry cloth wrap around my left wrist. He does the other in short order, and I feel him stand up behind me, the air shifting subtly around his movements.

“No, I’m-” _no point, no point, no point_ “I’m not- _him._ I’m Scott F-”

“Ford Williams,” he murmurs, and comes to stand in front of me.

I look up at him imploringly. “Yes,” I whisper. “And I’m _not dead._ ”

He nods absently, and bites his lip for a second. “Mm. Right,” he says, and drops the white box - first aid kit - back into his sack, before turning around. He stands akimbo and scrapes his bottom teeth over his top lip. “So did you know about her then? About Mary?”

This again. God, why am I even surprised? He’ll never let me go, and he’ll never believe I am who I say I am, so- so… I peer at him through narrowed eyes. “Who are you,” I growl at him. If he won’t let me tell him who I am, maybe he’ll tell me who h-

“Haha!” he laughs raucously. “Well done, _very_ well done, Sherlock. That was almost convincing,” he says, smiling broadly. The expression takes years off of his face, making him look oddly boyish.

I lick my lip and try again. “Tell me your name.”

He tilts his head to the side, smile fading to a tiny quirk of amusement. “You know my name.”

I shake my head. “I _don’t._ ”

The smile disappears entirely, and his eyes go hard and sharp like crystal. “You’re _lying_.”

I huff out a breath, half exhausted, half terrified. “I’m not,” I whisper, my voice agonised. “I don’t know you,” I continue, and my shoulders shrug, the cuffs scraping over my recently-bandaged wrists. “I’ve never seen you, before two days ago-”

He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “Did you know. About. _Mary_.”

Jesus fucking- “God- I don’t know who she is!” I scream, my head shaking side to side autonomously, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I’ve completely lost control, I can’t- can’t- “You’re a sodding _lunatic!_ ”

He stares at me askance, and I wonder if it’s going to happen now, if he’s going to kill me. Oddly enough, the thought is less terrifying than it was two days ago. I think I’d like to be anywhere else, anywhere but he-

“A lunatic?” he says, face caught between shock and… is that amusement? He thinks this is _amusing?_ “Well, that’s almost funny, isn’t it.” No, it _isn’t._ “God even knows how many times people’ve called _you_ that.”

Called me what? A lunatic? No, no- “No one’s ever called me that,” I counter, my face scrunching up in confusion.

“Ha!”

“They haven’t! I’m-” What am I? Who am I? “I’m…” I swallow convulsively, “I’m nobody. I’m-” I snort in self-loathing, “-perfectly ordinary. I’m a bloody _schoolteacher_ , I-”

“Ah, yes, of course,” he says, and tilts his head back in a nod. “I’d nearly forgotten. What do you teach then?” he says, head tipped down as he looks up at me through his lashes.

“I-” He… does he actually want to know? Or is this another test? “What?”

“Your subject,” he says, eyelashes fluttering. “What do you teach.”

I stare up at him, my eyes wide, silently begging. What for, though, I have no idea. Nothing he’ll actually give me, anyway. “… French.”

His face breaks into a smile at that, and it’s the most genuine one yet. I feel my brow fold in bemusement. “Yeah,” he says, and I’m nearly bowled over by his agreement. “I’d nearly forgotten how fluent you are.” _Oh, Jesus._ “The poisoning case at that restaurant - Le Chevalier, was it? - you spoke a lot of French then,” he continues, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “No idea how you figured it was the sommelier, but-”

 _Stop this._ “I’ve never-” he glances up at me, face oddly open. I look back down at my lap. “I’ve never been to Le Chevalier.”

He’s silent for an endless moment, and I can’t help but feel that I’ve ruined something. No. No, this isn’t my fault. I never asked for this, I didn’t want this, I haven’t done anything wro-

“Right,” he says, and I look up at him. His face is closed off again, and I feel my own fall. “‘Course you haven’t.” He steps back over to his bag and pulls out a takeaway box, turning back round and extending it towards me. “I brought you a bit of Angelo’s pasta primavera. Figured you-”

“Why are you doing this?”

His shoulders slump and he retracts the arm holding the takeaway. “This again.”

“I just, only-” I’m running out of options. I nearly laugh out loud at that - I never had any options, in the first place. I’m not running out of _options_ , I’m running out of _time_. “If you won’t let me go-”

“I won’t,” he interjects, and my posture slumps even further.

“If you won’t let me go,” I repeat, “and you won’t tell me who you are, then-”

“John Hamish Watson.”

… _What?_

“… J-John Hamish Watson. That’s-” Oh my god. Oh my _god_ , it worked. He told me. He _told_ me! “That’s you?”

He rolls his eyes and crouches momentarily to set the takeaway on the floor. “’Course it’s me. Doctor John Hamish Watson.” _Doctor?_ “Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” Captain? _Captain?_ Like, what, the military or something? No, that’s- “Veteran of Kandahar and Helmand, Bart’s Hospital - you know all this.”

He’s… a doctor? No, that’s… Well, he did mention a clinic, I think. But… he said he was homeless, I thought? Suppose there are a lot of homeless veterans, but… His clothes, they’re clean. Neat. Not new, but not old either. No. No, he didn’t say he was homeless. He said, he said… _There is no home for me. Not anymore._ Ugh, what does that even _mean?_

I take a quick breath and lick my lips. Where did he say he served? “Kandahar, you said? That’s…” Middle East somewhere, yes? God, I don’t remember. “That’s in, er…” Where do we have soldiers? Ugh, why don’t I pay attention to those depressing news broadcasts? Bugger, I can barely get through Four Thought. Perhaps… “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

His face goes blank, jaw slackening, but his eyes… His eyes look moist, shiny, like he’s tearing up. Oh, god, I’ve said something wrong. Jesus, what have I said? What have I done?

He licks a lip and the wetness in his eyes leaves as quickly as it came. “Afghanistan,” he says, and his voice is gruff, gravelly.

Afghanistan… Well, that might explain why he’s bloody _insane_. On the other hand though, “Why are you-” his hair is a bit silvered, yes, and there are crinkles around his eyes, but other than that, his features are moderately youthful, almost boyish. “You look a bit young to’ve retired,” I finish.

His eyes roll then squeeze tightly shut. “We really doing this, Sherlock?” he grits out. Doing what? I don’t-

“I was wounded in action,” he continues. “Bullet to the shoulder, some nerve damage.” He was shot? God, that must’ve been- “Can’t be an army surgeon with shaky hands, so…” he trails off for a brief moment, mouth turning down with something like regret. “I was invalided out.”

Jesus, alright. So, he’s an army doctor, shot, sent home… “And then what?” I ask, worrying my lip between my teeth.

“And then wh- And then I met you, you berk,” he barks, brow furrowed in annoyance. I cower back slightly and look down. “And you… You fixed me,” he whispers. “You saved my life.”

… Oh. I- _God_. Army surgeon, comes home broken, makes a friend, who then commits suici- “How did you meet him?” I ask, derailing my train of thought before it could stray somewhere too dark. “Your- your Sherlock, I mean.”

He huffs out a laugh, though it sounds pained. “You’re not ‘my Sherlock’,” he mutters, and my brow furrows. What does that mean? “You were never that, and you know it,” he continues, glaring up at me. “Why are you-”

Ugh. “I was never _any_ Sherlock,” I counter and muster just enough courage to glare back. His eyes roll skywards, and I slump forward in my seat. “I’m Scott,” I continue in a bitter whisper. “I’ve- I’ve always been Scott.” Well, actually- “Though…” I trail off, wishing I hadn’t spoken at all.

And of course, he prompts me to continue. “Though what.”

I don’t want to tell him this, don’t want to tell him anything really, seeing as nothing I have to say seems to mesh with what he wants to hear. But every second I’m here further convinces me that I have nothing to lose. “My mum,” I murmur, looking down at my hands, “when I was small, she-… she used to call me ‘Ford’.” _Don’t forget your lunch, Ford. You’re a good boy, Ford. You can go out and play after you’ve finished your chores, Ford-_ “My-… my sister calls me that.”

He stares at me blankly for a moment, then his gaze loses focus, and he seems to look _through_ me. “Sherlock’s your middle name,” he whispers, and I strain forward to hear him. “One of them,” he continues, shaking his head. “I’m not sure which.” A deep breath. “They read it off at your funeral as ‘W.S.S. Holmes’. Always figured the W had to be something really horrid - worse than Hamish,” he says with a dry laugh.

I shrug my shoulders and lean back. “Hamish isn’t so bad,” I respond, though why I’m seeking to offer _him_ comfort is beyond me. “I’ve got a student called Hamish.”

“Oh, have you?” he says, voice sarky and cold. “Well, that’s a nice coincidence, isn’t it.”

Well… yes. It is. “Yes, I suppose so. Dr. Watson.”

His eyebrows jump, and his gaze softens with mild amusement. “You’ve never called me that before. _Dr. Watson_.”

I huff out a rueful laugh and swallow against the dryness in my throat. “’Course I haven’t. I didn’t know your name until a moment ago.”

The fleeting softness in his eyes disappears in a flash, leaving only sharp ice. “How long are you gonna do this, Sherlock?” he asks, though he doesn’t inflect it as a question. His eyes bore into mine. They’re blue, so blue, don’t know how I ever thought they were brown. “You have to know - you _must_ know - how fucking _awful_ this makes me feel,” he finishes, voice an anguished whisper.

 _You?_ , I almost say. _I’m supposed to be concerned about how_ you _feel?_ But, no. I doubt that would solve anything. He’s angry enough, I don’t reckon anything good would come of us _both_ being angry.

I swallow my dismay and shake my head, looking down submissively at my feet. “I’m sorry. I- I’m very sorry for-” God, what am I sorry for? That I look like his dead friend? That he’s not still overseas? That he didn’t _die_ there? That I ever thought a holiday in London would be _fun?_ “… for your loss,” I finish weakly, and it sounds only mildly sincere, even to my ears.

“Oh Jes- shut up, Sherlock,” he says, face scrunching up in annoyance.

“Please-” don’t call me that. That’s not me, I’m not him, _I’m not him._ “… Please call me Scott,” I murmur. “It’s… it’s my name.”

He stares at me for a second, face impassive, then quickly makes his way over to his bag. “You want the pasta or not?” he says, his back to me as he rustles around in the sack.

I shake my head. “I-I’m not hungry.”

He chuckles dryly. “’Course you’re not,” he responds and stands up again. When he turns to me, I see a glimmer of light reflect off of something shiny in his hand, and he steps towards me. What is that? What is-

 _Oh my god_.

No. No no no nono _nonono_ \- “Oh god. Oh my god, what are you-”

“It’s just anaesthetic, Sherlock. You’ll be fine,” he says firmly, grasping my arm.

I shiver, then start to shake violently. No, no no no- “Please, _please_ don’t,” I implore him as he brings the needle flush with my skin. Oh god, oh my god, he’s going to kill me or- or _worse_ , Jesus Christ, help me, someone help me, someone please- “Don’t do this, I’m begging you- I-” _Ah!_ It’s in, oh god, there’s a needle in my arm, oh my g-, oh my god, I can’t, ca-, caaa- “I…” Dark. So dark. Sssso- “Pleeease, _nnn_ -”

—

I wedge the handset between my shoulder and ear, glancing down at my hands. Hm. Seems my cuticles need attention. All this stress is hardly conducive to maintaining attractive nail beds. I breathe a short sigh and turn my hands over to inspect my hyponychium - abysmal, as expected.

“Your leads, then,” I murmur absently into the mouthpiece. “What are they?”

There’s a brief pause, during which I realise first that I am in dire need of a professional manicurist, and second that my brother is… _hesitant_. I feel my eyes widen, though I shouldn’t be surprised, really; Sherlock has accumulated a whole mess of odd traits and idiosyncrasies in his time away, very few of which actually suit him-

“London.”

… I do so loathe repetition, but, “London,” I say, monotone, and glance up from my nails. If I pay them any more attention, I may well start picking at them - a vile and uncouth habit.

“Yes,” Sherlock intones. His voice is quiet, only barely above a whisper, and I am put in the terribly uncomfortable position of wondering where he is without the ability to track his location. How vexing.

“We know Moran is in London surveilling John,” he continues, and his tone bears the slightest edge of anxiety - another strange new characteristic he’s developed.

“Ye-es,” I respond. Does he truly believe me unaware of Moran’s situation? Or… _oh_. My left hand comes to rest palm down on my desk, as my right reaches up to encircle the handset; I feel the lacquered ceramic strain in my grip. “You think the accomplice is _with_ Moran,” I say, struggling to keep my disbelief out of my tone. “In London.”

I hear him sigh from down the line, but the flavour of it is different than usual. He sounds… exhausted. “I’ve searched everywhere else,” he mutters, “every potential safe house, bolthole, hideout, I’ve retraced the accomplice’s steps entirely and had next to nothing to show for it. The only place I’ve not searched is London.”

I shift the handset against my ear. “For obvious reasons. It’s entirely counterintuitive.”

“Yes, exactly,” he says, voice wobbling in nervous anticipation. I wonder how long it will take him to re-delete this wealth of newly acquired _emotions_. “Strategy 101,” he continues, “don’t put all your eggs in one basket.”

I huff out a breath and lower my chin to my chest, speaking deliberately into the mouthpiece. “Which is precisely why the accomplice _wouldn’t_ be in London.”

There is another long pause, during which I can’t help but wonder if my dear brother has lost (or temporarily misplaced) his touch. Bad enough that _sentiment_ had him jumping from a roof four years ago, now it seems to stain his every move, every decision, nearly every word he speaks. Only moments ago he spoke of an _illegal move_ , just the sort of rhetoric my clever - though I’d never tell him as much - brother would use before flipping the board in his favour. And now he’s prattling on about _London_ , of all places.

He sighs again, this one wearier than the last and heavy with a sort of… oh my, is that _guilt?_ “I underestimated Moriarty and his syndicate once,” he says - ah yes, guilt indeed. “They know I won’t do it again.” Oh.

 _Oh_.

Seems he is not the only one making foolish underestimations. My mistake.

“They know that _I_ know that they’re clever,” he continues, and he is, he very truly is, “so-”

“So they deliberately make a foolish move,” I cut in, tuning to his (admittedly brilliant) wavelength, “knowing that you would never suspect it.”

He huffs out a relieved breath. Was he always this easy to read? “Precisely. Genius, really,” he says bitterly. “I’m running about Eastern Europe like a headless chicken following whatever red herrings they plant for me, whilst-”

“They’re together in London,” I murmur, mostly to myself, “safe and sound in the knowledge that you would never suspect Moran to keep his accomplice _with_ him.”

“Mm.” I hear a tiny whisper of sound and determine he has pursed his lips. I feel myself do the same. “Which brings us to my second lead,” he says, tone circumspect.

My posture straightens. “Oh?”

He takes a slow breath, then another. Then another. “… _Agra_.”

—

“And the prince awakens.”

“I-…” Oh god, I feel _awful_. “What?” My head, for god’s sake, my _head!_ Feels like there’s a bloody parade inside it, my breath making the roar of the audience, and my pulse forming a heavy bass drum. And, _fuck_ , everything hurts. My whole body is sore, terribly so - Christ, did he _beat_ me while I slept? My arm in particular, god, why does my arm feel s-

“I’ve brought you some water. And a few energy bars.”

“I-” Jesus, is he yelling? No, no he’s not, but it feels like he is. What happened? I blink my eyes a few times - they feel both crusty and gummy, _ugh_ \- and glance around. The room looks much (exactly) the same, and I shake my head, ignoring the sloshing feeling which I can only assume is my brain flopping about inside it. When I tilt my head down, I notice- “Oh.” My hands are cuffed in front of me. …That’s-

“Figured it’d be better this way,” he says, nonchalant. “You can have a wee whenever you like, now.” _Oh god_. “Careful, though. They’re not the sort you can pick, made sure of it.”

The soggy cloths on my wrists have been replaced with thin white bandages, taped down quite professionally. My god, he actually _is_ a doctor? I shake my head again - _slosh_ \- and wince. “I can’t pick any sort of lock,” I mutter bitterly. “Been locked out of my flat all night for it.”

He huffs out a little laugh. “Right. Well, then, _Scott_ ,” god, it’s almost _worse_ when he uses my name, that tone is so- “you definitely can’t pick these. The bars and water are next to you, just there,” he says, and slings his bag over his shoulder, keys in hand. “I’ll be back round six.”

No. No no no nonononono- “Please don’t leave me here,” I whimper. I wish I could yell, _scream_ it in his stupid, crinkly little face, but… “I… I’m just-” _so tired._

“What,” he bites out, face impassive.

I glance down at my sore arm. There’s a bandage round my bicep, and I furrow my brow, before determining that I’m absolutely too exhausted to care. My chin falls to rest on my chest, exacerbating the horrid crick in my neck. “It’s cold,” I whisper, “and… I-” I swallow compulsively once, twice, and cough a little. Am I getting sick? Huh, some _doctor_. “I don’t like it here.”

He chortles a dark, deep laugh at that, nearly too low for me to hear. “Yeah, well. I don’t like it here either,” he responds, shaking his head. “Don’t like much of anything these days.” He gives me a long once over and grimaces. “Not that you care.” He makes a volte-face and steps toward the door.

No more, please, no more. “Please, Dr. Watson, please, I’ll-” what? I’ll what? There’s nothing I can do, nothing I can say- “do anything you like- I’ll-I’ll-”

“Is it Walter?”

I feel my brow scrunch up. “Wh-what?”

He turns back round then and looks down at me, eyes curious. “Your name, W.S.S. Holmes.” That’s _not my name._ “Is it Walter? Or Wilbur? Maybe something really awful like, er,” he smiles wryly, “Willoughby? Winchester?”

I-… There’s nothing to say, really. Nothing to even think. Too tired to think. But he’s looking at me askance, expecting an answer. I feel my face go blank as my body numbs over. “Scott,” I say, voice devoid of emotion. “My first name is Scott.”

A short pause, a soft, dry chuckle, a clatter of metal, and a cold, hateful darkness.

—

“Still not eating, I see.”

Oh. He’s back. Must be ‘sixish’. Didn’t hear him come in. Didn’t notice the light come on. Is that a duffle bag in the corner? Can’t tell. Don’t care.

“Not hungry,” I say. Is that my voice?

“Really?” he responds. I haven’t looked at his face yet, but I can hear the amused surprise in his tone. I hunch over. “Been three days, you know.”

Yes. I’ve been counting. “How long will you keep me here.” Too tired to inflect it like a question. Not like he’ll give me a clear answer anyway.

“Until you tell me the truth.” Case in point. “Sort of a stupid question,” he says offhand.

“There aren’t stupid questions, only stupid answers,” I say before I can stop myself. I know those words by rote, said them so many times to my students. Silly. I’m not a teacher here - hell, I’m not even _alive_ here. Just a madman’s mad dead friend.

“Ha!” He barks out a raucous laugh. “That’s a good one,” a smile in his tone. “And how was my answer, then? Stupid?”

A bit, yes. I shake my head - can’t tell if the sloshing feeling is gone or if I’m just too numb to feel it. Too tired, too cold, too far gone to care. “What did he do to you,” I murmur, and my voice is gravelly, cracking. “This _Sherlock_ ,” I see him wince in my peripheral vision. “What did he do. You said…” _Been talking to your headstone for four years._ “You said he killed himself.”

“Did I say that.”

His amusement has finally disappeared, and I look up at him. Ah, yes. Inscrutable as ever. “Yes,” I respond, staring him dead in the eyes. Or perhaps, staring into _his_ dead eyes. Or staring with _my_ dead eyes into his dead eyes. Whatever. Cold. I’m so cold. “You said it’s been four years since he killed himself.”

He stares back, and no, his eyes aren’t dead, but shadowed. There’s something behind them. Something lurking. “Good memory you’ve got,” he intones. “ _Scott_.”

That’s my name. Don’t call me that. I repeat myself, “What did he-”

“You know what you did,” he interrupts, and his voice is a low rumble, like thunder miles out.

I shiver, cold. Not afraid, not anymore. Too tired. “I _don’t_.”

“You _do_ ,” he counters immediately, and the thing that lurks keeps lurking.

I imagine we could go back and forth like this for hours - or rather, _he_ could. Think I might lose consciousness barely a few minutes in. How is he not tired, not cold? How is he alright? How can he do this? How-

“You killed yourself,” he says, and the words sound choked, ground out past clenched teeth. I peer up at him, and his face is… I can’t describe his face. Don’t think I know the words. “Jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s.” Jumped off the… _what._ “I stood there,” he says, and his eyes go unfocused, distant, “not twenty paces from where you-” he swallows with a little choking sound, “… landed.” He finally looks down at me, though I can tell it isn’t _me_ he’s seeing. “You’d called me just before, on your mobile. Told me you were a fake.” A fake? Fake what? “Told me to tell everyone you were a fake. Asked if I would do this for you. If I would-” Oh, god. Oh god, _no._ “If I would _watch_. You-…” Jesus Christ, Jesus fu- “you _made me_ …” he takes several short breaths, quick and close together like a panic attack, and of course he’s mad, of _course_ he is, if this man, this _Sherlock_ made him- “ _watch_.”

… _Détruit_. That’s the word. Destroyed. _Ruined._

“He…” Oh my _god_. If I didn’t hate _Sherlock_ already - which I’m quite sure I did - I certainly do now. Tenfold. “He k-killed himself…” the numbness is fading and I can feel my feet again. They hurt, “… in front of you?”

He stares at me for a pregnant moment, and I realise why his face is so… odd: his expressions don’t quite mesh. He’s sad now, anguished - I can see a sheen growing in his eyes pooling on the inside of the lower lids - but he’s… smiling. Like something’s funny. It should frighten me - further proof that he’s mad - but, strangely, it doesn’t. I only feel an eerie, heavy hollowness in my gut like guilt, or perhaps shame. The shine in his eyes crests and a little tear forms at the corner of the left one. In it, I can see the reflection of the fluorescent light overhead. If I looked close enough, I reckon I could see my own face.

“S’it make you feel better,” he murmurs, voice just above a whisper. His cheeks are still rounded with that incongruous smile. “Referring to yourself in the third person?”

Third pers-? Oh, yes, how could I forget. He thinks I’m this man, this _Sherlock_. God, it’s a wonder he hasn’t killed me yet.

I shake my head and look up at him. “I’m not,” I whisper back.

“Bet it soothes your God complex,” he says as if I haven’t spoken at all. “Or maybe your Asperger’s.”

My brow furrows, and I clasp my hands together, my thumbs picking at the bandages. “I’ve not got a God complex. Or Asperger’s Syndrome.” No point, really, but it seems my mouth is determined to say pointless things before my brain can tell it not to.

“Well, you would say that,” he replies with a shrug. “S’not like you’d ever admit to it.” He tilts his head, considering. “Maybe the God complex, but-” a short, dry laugh, “-that’s not what you’d call it.”

I tip my head up. “What would he call it?”

He looks me in the eye and smirks. “’Being right’.”

 _Being right?_ Being… _right?_ I don’t- what does that mean? I lick my lips, then pull them through my teeth. “And the Asperger’s?” I ask. “What would he call that?”

He stares blankly at me for a second, then snorts and looks off to the side. “Same thing you’ve always called it,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over the back of his head. “High-functioning sociopathy.”

High-functioning… _What._ “He- …” Oh, god. He was-? …Ugh, of course he was. What other sort of person would kill himself in front of someone he _knew_ , a friend, someone he cared about? And _high-functioning_? What on earth does that mean? A sociopath is a sociopath, there’s no _functionality_ to even take into account- “He was a sociopath?”

I thought it a stupid question ( _there are no stupid questions_ ), the answer seeming so obvious, but the man - _John_ , his name is _John_ \- looks oddly… conflicted?

He - _John_ \- shakes his head absently, then tilts it to the side. “I never thought so,” he murmurs, and he sounds like he’s talking to himself. “Not really. Always figured you were just-” licks his lips, “-just different and-” his eyebrows rise, eyes going glassy and distant, “… lonely.” He pauses for a moment, biting his lip. Then he stirs, shaking his head as if waking himself up. “But talking to you now, doing-” he gives me a once over, “ _this_ , I gotta say, I’m beginning to rethink that.”

 _This?_ What _this?_ I don’t- “I don’t understand.”

He stares at me, and though the wetness is gone from his eyes, the smile still looks misplaced. “You realise this is torture, right?” He licks his lip again and smiles a little broader, though it’s still cut with an edge of anger, nigh on _malice._ “You do _see_ that. Don’t you.”

Torture? Of course, this is torture - I’m tied to a bloody chair in a piss-riddled storage unit with a madman barking at me and waving a bloody _gun_ in my face! … Only… Only I don’t think he’s talking about _me._ “Torture,” I repeat, shaking my head. “What’s tor-”

“ _This_ ,” he hisses, drawing out the sibilant like a snake. I flinch back at the tone and shrink in on myself. “Making me-” he cuts himself off with a vicious bite of the lip, then steps forward, towering over me. “Making me _talk_ about you like you’re still fucking _dead_ ,” he grits out, leaning over me, “while you sit here - _right here_ \- in front of me.” His hands come up in wild gesticulation bare centimeters from my face. “You told me you were a fake when I knew you weren’t, and then you died. Now - _now_ \- you’re alive, telling me you’re real when I know you’re not.” No, no no no, I am real, I _am-_ “It’s _evil_ ,” his voice cracks, “Sherlock, it’s-”

“I _am_ real!” I interrupt, projecting my voice over his. He leans back slightly, eyes widening. “I _am_ ,” I continue, voice shaking. “I’m just not Sh-”

“Scott Ford Williams!” he yells over me. “That’s who you’re _not_.” He leans in close to me again, placing his hands on my shoulders. I want to flinch from the touch, but I can’t move and I’m so cold and he’s so warm, so warm, hot almost _scorching_. “He’s not _real_ , Sherlock,” he whispers plaintively into my face. “He isn’t real, and he _never_ has been, you-” he squeezes my shoulders, and his hands are strong, “ _you_ are real, Sherlock.” His eyes are moving wildly, flicking over my face. “ _You_ are.”

_Détruit._

_Ruiné._

_Angoissé._

I shake my head slightly, my greasy hair brushing over his fingers, and look up into his eyes. They’re shining again and glow bright blue and fathomless. “I’m sure he was real,” I whisper, “Dr. Watson.”

His face scrunches up at the name, and I can tell he doesn’t like when I call him that. Finds it incongruous, like his tearful smile. He grits his teeth, “Damn it, Sherlo-”

“But he’s dead.”

His face smoothes out into inscrutable blankness. There’s a flicker behind his eyes, the lurking thing flinching back from the finality in my tone. I doubt he’ll believe me, and even if - miraculously - he does, I doubt even more that it will save me.

He shakes his head, like a shiver. Is he as cold as I am? “No.”

I nod slowly. “Yes.” I shouldn’t feel sympathy for this man. “Sherlock is _dead_. John.” Or pity. “He’s dead.” But there’s a little voice in the back of my head, a voice I barely recognise as my own, whispering _détruit, détruit, détruit._ “But…” I lick my lips and lean in closer to his face, until he can look nowhere but into my eyes. “ _I_ , Scott Ford Williams,” I enunciate my name deliberately. That’s my name. That’s me, “I’m-” I smile sadly, and my eyes feel hot and stinging, “I’m alive. I _am_ real, Dr. Watson. I’m-” I shake my head and look down. There isn’t much to me, I’m hardly very interesting, but… _Remind him you’re human._ No. _Remind him I’m_ me.

I look back up, my jaw jutted forward in determination. There isn’t much, but I’ll tell him everything, everything I can think of. “I’m thirty-four,” I begin, my eyes trained on his. “Thirty-five on the fourth of November.” God, I’m already running out, I- Oh! Last year! Last year, Maggie made me do this horrible online dating thing, so many questions, most of them pointless, but… _What’s your name? When’s your birthday? What’s your sign?_ “I’m a scorpio. I…” _Occupation?_ “I teach French at Wimbly Academy in Dorset, and-” _Family?_ “My sister, Anita Jane - Annie, I call her - she’s got a son called Kirkland, after-after our father.” God, I miss you, Da. “He’s… seven, eight in January. I-” Fuck, er… _Pets?_ “I’ve got… I took in a stray cat about ten years back, named him Schrodinger,” Da taught Physics at Wimbly, years before I was even a student. He chose the name, thought it was funny. I never understood it really, but Da was sick back then, fading away, and I- I couldn’t- “though I usually just call him Ding. He’s quite fat, lies about in the sun, does little else. I…

“I’ve not gone on a proper date in a- a while, but… there’s a young man,” _Seth_ , lovely, lovely Seth, “gardener - works at the florist with Mary from up the road.” Not your Mary, _my_ Mary. Sweet, doddering Mary. “He’s… Seth, that’s his name. He’s… he’s a quiet sort, like me, but- but he’s quite charming. Always chooses the best blooms for my bouquets…” Roses, all peach. Juliet, Finesse, Campanella, Tiffany- “I take flowers to my mother’s grave every Sunday…” _Mum. Mummy. Mummy, I love you, I love you, I love-_ “I miss her quite terribly, she- she had a stroke six years ago, but it still feels like…” _Mummy, please, I love you, please-_ “like yesterday.”

“Please, Dr. Watson, please…” Listen to me, please, please, _please_ believe me. “I am _not_ who you think I am, I’m not…” _He made me watch._ “ _Sherlock_ , but…” _Pleasepleaseple_ \- “but I _am_ real.” I swallow and taste salt. When did I start crying? “John.”

His hands still rest on my shoulders, though his grip has long since gone slack. His expression is unreadable, eyes wide and wet as he peers unblinking into my eyes. I don’t think he’s seeing me, don’t even think he’s seeing _Sherlock._ I doubt he sees anything beyond his own mad anguish.

Of a sudden, he drops down to his knees, as if his strings have been cut. Oddly, he seems small. He’s not a tall man, but usually his presence is massive, pressing against the four walls of this tiny little room and crowding me back against my chair. But right now, huddled on the floor between my knees, his hands sliding along my collarbone and up my neck to cup my jaw, he seems… miniscule. Impossibly tiny.

His grip on me becomes firm, but not painful, as he tilts my face downward. “Your eyes are…” he trails off, his own eyes widening and shining bright in the light. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

His hands are warm and dry, and I can feel an oddly placed callus on his forefinger as he moves it back and forth over the hinge of my jaw. My breath stutters out of me. “It-it’s-” God, I’m stammering. I clear my throat and try again. “It’s h-heteroch-chromia-”

“Iridis,” he interrupts, eyes still glazed with that far-away look. “I know. You told me once.”

No. That’s…

_No._

My head dips, shaking, as my whole body curls in on itself in wretched defeat. I suppose that’s it, then. He doesn’t believe me, can’t believe me, will _never believe me._

A tremor works its way through my shoulders, and his hands slide down to squeeze them. I sniff pathetically, staring at my still clasped hands, and whisper, “I never did.”

“You won’t convince me, Sherlock.”

( _I know I won’t._ ) That’s not my name. Don’t call me that. ( _I know I won’t._ )

“ _P-please._ ” What am I even begging for?

“It’ll never happen,” he murmurs, hands smoothing over the exposed skin at my neck to extend his fingers into the too-long curls at the back of my head. Need a cut. If he keeps me here forever, will he cut my hair? I really… I really need a cut.

“Your face,” he continues, “see, it’s-” his hands clench in my hair, but it only hurts a little. “It’s burned into my memory, isn’t it.” As yours will be burned into mine. “Had nightmares about your face - covered in blood,” _he made me watch_ “head cracked open,” _détruit_ “ _dead_ eyes. I still have them sometimes.” _détruit détruit détruit_ “You’re not Scott Ford Williams-”

I tip my head further down, even as it causes him to pull ever harder at my hair. “I am.”

He tightens his fingers, and I wince and whimper. “You’re _not_ ,” he says with a sharp-edged air of finality. “And you’ll never convince me otherwise.”

It seems my vocabulary has narrowed down to just one word: “ _Please-_ ”

“You’re not leaving here until you tell me the truth.”

I finally bring myself to look into his eyes. They’re a bit blurry, and I can’t tell if it’s tears in my eyes or his. “I have,” I whisper, and lean close enough to feel his breath on my face. “I have told you the truth.”

He stares at me for a moment, and I can’t tell if he’s deliberating. I don’t know what more I can do, what more I can say to convince him, if convincing him is even possible at this point-

He pulls back quickly, fingers snagging on the tangles in my unkempt hair. “I brought you some things.” He takes a few short strides to the corner of the room, and stoops down to rifle through… oh, it _is_ a duffle bag. After a few seconds of shuffling, during which the contents of the bag jangle against each other ominously, he pulls out small, rolled-up mat, a thick wool blanket, and… a long chain.

No. No no nonono _no._

He rolls out the mat against a side wall and drops the blanket on top, leaning over the makeshift bed to hook the chain to a small metal bolt in the wall. No. No no no _please_ , god no, please, please, please, _no-_

He approaches me swiftly and I bite my lip, belatedly realising I’ve been talking out loud. He squats down between my knees and disengages the short length of chain tethering my cuffed hands to the seat of the chair, before immediately connecting the other end of the new chain to the cuffs.

“Oh god, please, please no, please-” I whimper out, but he only looks down, smiles slightly at his handiwork, then pushes himself up to his feet with a soft grunt.

“There you are,” he murmurs, dragging me to my feet and pushing me towards the mat. No. No no no n- “Might be quite cold tonight, so there’s a nice blanket for you. Still got water and energy bars, too, so you should be alright. I’ll be back in the morning. I don’t work, so we’ve got all day to-” he turns his back and approaches the metal door, looking over his shoulder at me, “… _chat_.”

He pulls open the door and steps through and no no, please, _please_ , I can’t stay here, can’t sleep here, can’t _be_ here for one more second! “Please, Dr. Watson-”

The lights flick off, and I can just barely make out his silhouette as he stands in the darkness beyond the door. “Goodnight then.”

The door clunks closed, sealing me in silent pitch.

—

**END PT. 2**

—


	3. Chapter 3

“Agra? I’ve heard that name.” Somewhere in the Archives, perhaps?

“Yes, I imagine you have,” he responds briskly. “It’s the only known alias of the individual responsible for upwards of thirteen assassinations in Eastern Europe,” Hm. Thirteen is quite a large number, certainly it’s in the Archives somewhere, “including the Assembly President of Serbia in 2007,” A.P. Dragan Kasun, _searching_ , “the Speaker of the Latvian Saeima in 2008,” add to inquiry National Alliance Deputy and Speaker Juris Irbe, _searching_ , “and in 2009, the Kassir and two Avtoritets in the-”

 _File found._ “Solntsevskaya Bratva,” I cut in, “yes, I recall.” With the provided search terms, it takes barely a moment to access the complete file, and… _voila_.

File Access: GRANTED

//

Filename: E.Europe.Asn_IDunknown

Name: _unknown_

Aliases: **AGRA** ( confirmed)

D.O.B.: _unknown_

P.O.B.: Ukraine (unconfirmed; see addendum 1.6)

Years Active: 2005-2009 (confirmed), 2001-2009 (unconfirmed; see addendum 3.7)

Current Location: _unknown_

Current Status: _unknown_

Occupation: **Asn./Wetworks**

Operations: see addenda 2.1-2.18

Associates: _unknown_

Orders:

 **Capture/Remand** (02/06/2007)

 **Subdue/Kill** (17/08/2008) _*CURRENT*_

Addenda

//

My eyes flutter closed as I scroll through the rest of the file, the important details elucidating themselves in bold copperplate font across the backs of my eyelids. Scroll to the second addendum and- “ _Agra_ ,” I read out. “Political and criminal assassin, last known whereabouts Kiev in November 2009, gender unknown, ethnicity unknown, no confirmed associates or employers.” Hm. One of the few files in my Archives with more elements unknown than known. A gross oversight that I hadn’t flagged it, must make a note to flag all similar files-

“You recall Moriarty’s financier, Volkov?” Sherlock’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and I glare at the chair in which he would be sitting were he not several thousand miles away.

Volkov, Volkov, Volko- ah. Yes. “With the halitosis?”

He huffs out a breath, and I deduce he is currently rolling his eyes. Childish. “Yes.”

“What about him?”

“Moriarty hired him out of _Kiev_ in December 2009.”

Yes, and? Oh. _Oh._ Yes, I see. If Moriarty was hiring undesirables out of Kiev in winter of 2009, then… I lean back in my chair - really must get one with better lumbar support. “You think _Agra_ is Moran’s accomplice.”

I hear a quiet squelching sound. Biting his lips again, appalling habit he’s had since he was a boy. “I realise it’s a thin lead, but…”

He’s not wrong, it _is_ a rather thin lead to stake a national security operation on. Too many variables, unknowns, to truly predict its likelihood with any real accuracy. Moriarty played a stochastic game, it’s why he was so hard to beat, why we _still_ haven’t beaten him; he could very well have picked up Volkov in Kiev then headed to Africa, Asia, perhaps the Americas, and never even met _Agra_ at all. Only… “It’s better than nothing,” I murmur. I adjust the handset and settle my elbows against the armrests. “What do you plan to do with this information?”

“Well,” Sherlock says in that tone of his that suggests he’s about to say something absurd. I just barely stop my own eyes rolling. “If I’m right, if the accomplice _is_ Agra and he _is_ in London with Moran-” a rather enormous _if_ , that, “then it’s simple. I inform the bratva’s Pakhan of Agra’s location,” _for God’s sake_ , “he sends foot-soldiers to London to exact their revenge-” oh. _Ohh,_ “-for the murder of three of their own, and suddenly Moran is-”

“Fighting a war on two fronts,” I finish, sitting forward in my seat, lumbar be damned. “Then the bratva kills Agra, or at least leads you to him-”

“Either way, Agra is captured or eliminated. And if Agra _was_ the associate, I can come back to London and handle Moran, and if he _wasn’t_ , then… Well, at least you can delete his file from your _archives_ ,” Sherlock says, and I can hear the slightest edge of bravado in his voice, as well as the derisive tone with which he refers to my Archives - as if his ridiculous _palace_ is any better. Furthermore, he knows I never delete, only _compress_. Usually, I would admonish his rudeness, only… Only it has been so long since I’ve heard him speak in a tone suggesting anything other than sheer exhaustion.

Still though, as plans go, this one may very well be entirely mad. I harrumph and hold the handset a bit closer to my mouth. “You do realise that you intend to converse openly with the head of the Russian mafia and invite his henchmen into this country for the purposes of a likely gruesome revenge killing?”

I hear him make a long-suffering sigh, and I nearly scoff - as if _Sherlock_ is the one who suffers in our unfortunate fraternal relationship. “Ye-es,” he says again in that _tone._ “And?”

My eyes roll of their own volition. Ah, well. Can’t suppress them all. “Just clarifying,” I respond absently and glance at my horrid fingernails again whilst I play at devil’s advocate - though I seem to recall Sherlock once saying it was more likely that the devil would advocate for _me._ I doubt he meant to flatter me, but…

“Why should the Pakhan trust your information,” I ask. It’s a rather obvious hole in his plan, but I’m sure he’s accounted for it, and I’m rather curious as to how.

“He shouldn’t,” Sherlock responds in rare agreement. “But he _will_ trust the advice of his highest councillor.”

Highest councillor? Solntsevskaya Bratva, councillors, chief, _searching… found._ “Yevgenny Popov?”

Sherlock hums an affirmation, and I hear his jaw click. “He owes me a favour.”

Of course, he does. Well. This is an interesting turn of events, isn’t it.

I take a moment to set up the board in my mind. It’s an ugly game - sacrifices made on both sides, even more sacrifices necessary to earn the win, unpreventable collateral damage, all sportsmanship cast aside in the quest for success, planning far too many moves ahead against an entirely unpredictable opponent prone to random feats of genius. It’s a bloody board.

Assuming Agra _is_ Moran’s accomplice, Sherlock’s plan does indeed have the potentiality to work. However, knowing my brother, he’ll want to follow the mafiosos back here to London, which would, of course, create a practical nightmare not only for him and myself, but for England’s national security. Bad enough that I’m contemplating letting blacklisted bratva associates into this country to perform a revenge killing - even if it _is_ in England’s best interests, it’s entirely uncouth - but if Moran were to capture Sherlock… Well.

I take a deep breath and settle back into my seat. “Contact Popov,” I command.

I hear the rustling of fabric - cotton and… polyester? Really, Sherlock? - and assume he has nodded his agreement. “When can I expect transport to London?”

And there’s the foolish little brother I so loathe adoring. “You’re not going to London,” I say, unable to suppress the tinge of condescension colouring my tone.

He takes an indignant breath, and I sigh wearily. “Wha- Mycroft, this is my _only_ lead, I _have_ to-”

For god’s sake, sentiment? _Again?_ “I am not an endless font of resources, Sherlock,” I project over him, my tone hard and cold. “I can’t protect John, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, _and_ you, all whilst continuing the search for Moran, _and_ tailing the Russian mafia. No. You will contact Popov, then you will _stay where you are._ ” I ignore his outraged grumble. “I will assign a detail to follow the bratva associates once they’ve entered the country.”

“Mycroft-”

Heavens, need I explain this to him? Ugh, apparently. “Until Moran’s accomplice is eliminated, you _will_ require protection in London-”

“No, I-”

“-and it is protection I cannot afford you, seeing as your presence in the city will further endanger not only John but Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, as well. Your attendance would only complicate matters.”

“But-”

“ _Or_ ,” I interject, and he quietens at my tone, “I can take you into custody. Right now.”

There is a brief pause while he deliberates - pointless, as I already know what his decision will be. True to form, he sighs in defeat, and I can’t prevent a smug smile from splitting my face.

“You’ll inform me of the accomplice’s identity,” he demands. That _tone_ again. Ah, well.

“Immediately,” I acquiesce with a nod.

“And I will be granted transport to London once the accomplice is killed?”

I grimace. As much as I would like to deny him, to give myself a bit more time to prepare, to figure some way of protecting him - though it’s rather apparent there _is_ no surefire way - I realise I’ve used my only bargaining chip in keeping him away from London while the bratva is here. If I attempt to deny him access to the country once the assassin is handled, he’ll likely try to make his way here through whatever means (legal or no) that he could. He does so like to be contrary.

I take a short breath and nod. “Killed or captured, yes. I will grant you transport,” I allow, gritting my teeth momentarily. “With the accomplice neutralised, Moran is the only piece left on the board. Presuming he doesn’t go to ground,” I add.

“He won’t,” Sherlock counters. He sounds confident enough, but I still find myself loath to believe him. “Moriarty was willing to die to beat me,” that he was, little brother, but are you willing to do the same? “and Moran is as well.”

I nod absently. I suppose that does have merit, but… “If that’s the case, then you need only ascertain his specific whereabouts in London.”

Sherlock scoffs, and he almost sounds like his old self. “I can find anyone in London.”

I smile wistfully and nod. “Yes. But keep in mind…” How to put this so that my emotionally compromised brother (the absurdity of that statement still irks me) will understand? Ah, yes. _Chess._ “Moran is the final piece, but he is also the _queen_. And you are a bare king.” No one else on the board, brother dear, no distraction, misdirection, protection, _nothing_. “You said yourself that a security detail will only draw more attention to you, and I agree.” Yes, Sherlock, you were not wrong about that, but… “I cannot protect you, Sherlock,” I murmur, clutching the handset. “Moran will be hunting you as surely as you will be hunting him, and if he captures you-”

“He won’t.”

Foolish boy. “Do you realise what’s at stake?” I bite out.

“Yes,” he hisses. And, yes, I suppose if there’s one thing he knows after these four long years it is _precisely_ what’s at stake. I’ll grant him that.

“Moran can still gain the upper hand, here,” I clarify, though I am sure he has come to this conclusion himself. “If he captures you, it’s a simple matter of extracting whatever information you possess on _me_ , Sherlock. In working so closely with me, you have become a veritable font of privileged information.”

Another scoff, and it sets my teeth on edge. “Rest assured, brother dear, your reputation won’t be tarnished-”

 _For god’s sake_. “This isn’t about my _reputation_ ,” I growl. Only Sherlock can _vex_ me so, “this is about _national security_ -”

“He won’t capture me,” Sherlock responds, self-assured and foolhardy.

I huff a sigh as my eyes flutter closed. “For heaven’s sake, Sherlock, you cannot possibly be sure of that.”

“I can, and I am,” he responds evenly and pauses for a brief, heavy moment.

How can he be sure? How can he be _certain_? Nothing has been certain, nothing at all in these four years has been set in stone. He cannot possibly be so foolish as to think his safety is guaranteed. It’s impossible, it’s-it’s… oh. _Ohh._

I suck in a short breath and can almost _hear_ Sherlock smirking.

“He won’t capture _me_ , Mycroft.”

Ah, yes. The _illegal move_. My, he must be getting quite bored of my underestimation; I must do better. It’s hardly sporting.

—

“Rise and shine.”

My eyes flicker open, and I groan. I was having a dream, or maybe a nightmare, I don’t know. One of those weird ones where nothing overtly terrible happens, but the situation still feels dire, like anything you do, any move you make or door you open could lead to something awful. Suppose that makes sense, given the circumstances.

I glance up at-… John. Seems odd to think of him that way - _John._ Like he’s just an ordinary bloke I met round the pub. What’s more, he _looks_ like the sort of ordinary bloke you’d meet round the pub. He’s wearing a blue jumper - god, is there no end to this man’s jumper collection? - with a crisp, white shirt poking out at the wrists and neck, as well as a pair of dark grey trousers. With the kit and the boyish cut of his hair and his odd little scrunched up face, he looks about as dangerous as a little girl’s pet hare. Only, that’s not true. No, John Watson is very, _very_ dangerous.

I sit up and wince. My hip aches from where it pressed into the mat, as well as my shoulder and the side of my head. Really, I may as well have slept on the floor.

“Mat isn’t very comfortable, sorry,” John says as he steps toward me. “Slept on one just like it in Helmand, think my spine is still misaligned.” He smiles down at me, and it almost looks… fond. My body shakes in a motion between a shiver and a shudder.

“You look hungry,” he murmurs, peering at me with sharp eyes.

I shift my body until I’m sitting on the mat with my back pressed against the wall, legs crossed. The cuffs jar against each other as the chain clinks. “I'm not,” I mutter, worrying at the bandages on my wrists.

His eyes follow the movement, and he clenches his jaw. “You’ve not eaten any of the energy bars?”

“I'm not hungry,” I repeat, biting out the words and glaring up at him.

He grits his teeth harder and I see a muscle jump in his jaw. “You really think starving yourself is a good idea?” he asks, folding his arms over his chest with a dry chuckle. “That's hardly going to convince me you're not Sherlock Holmes.”

Well, apparently _nothing_ is going to convince you, so what’s the point of this? What do you expect to gain? Why- “Why are you doing this?” I ask, then shake my head at myself. Perhaps there is such a thing as a stupid question.

John rolls his eyes and puts his arms akimbo. “Jesus Christ, how many times are you going to ask me that?” he demands, gesticulating. “You already know, Sherlock, I know you do!”

I don’t, I don’t, _I don’t!_ “I…” want to go home. I just want to go home. “You say you- you want the truth,” I begin. I don’t know why I’m bothering with it at all, but… well, I can’t answer any of his questions, maybe he can answer mine. Not that his answers will even make any sense, but… “What... truth?” I continue. “The truth about what?”

He gives me a look that positively screams ‘are you an idiot?’ “Oh, I dunno,” he says, tilting his head aggressively to the side. “Maybe where the fuck you've been for four years while my life was slowly falling apart!” he roars.

I flinch back for a moment, then settle. He wants me afraid of him, I think. So I’ll endeavour not to give him that. “Would…” I lick my lips, unsure. “Would that matter?” I ask, looking up at him and biting my lip.

His face scrunches up. “What?”

I lick my lips again and taste balm. Just before I went to sleep last night, I remembered it was still in my pocket. I was pathetically ecstatic to have it in my hands. “Would it make a difference at all? Is he-” does it even matter? “-is he the reason your life is-”

“Of course it would have made a difference!” he barks at me. It’s harder not to be afraid than I expected. I wish for a moment that I could put all my emotions in a little tiny room inside my head, somewhere he - somewhere even _I_ \- couldn’t get to them. “I mourned you for two fucking _years_ , Sherlock!” It seems you’ve mourned him longer than that… “Then I met Mary, and I thought things might be alright, but…"

Right, Mary. Who’s Mary? His girlfriend? Wife? “…But?”

He looks down at his feet, and his eyes go dull. “But they weren't. She wasn’t…” he swallows, I can see the motion of his throat, then shakes his head. “She wasn't who she said she was.”

She wasn’t-? Huh. Seems no one is who John Watson thinks they are. I could almost pity him. Almost. “I don’t-”

“And you would have known that!” he says, thrusting a finger at me. “You would have taken one look at her, and you would have known.” Known what? “You'd have told me, you'd have gotten me out, set me straight, you _would_ have. And I wouldn't be…” Wouldn’t be what? What? Alone? Angry? _Mad?_ He shakes his head again and looks back down. “It wouldn't be like this.”

As I expected, his answers only breed more questions. “What-” are you talking about? What do I have to do with it? What does any of this even _mean_? “What was wrong with her? Mary.”

He tips his head up and peers at me, and for the first time, it seems like he might actually be seeing _me_. He shakes his head absently, brow furrowed deep. “Do you really not know?”

I shake my head back, slowly. “No,” I murmur. “No, I don't know.”

He blinks several times, and his eyes turn to glass. “She was-” he interrupts himself with a gust of breath, and I get a sick feeling in my stomach. _Any move you make or door you open could lead to something awf-_ “She was gunned down, seven weeks ago, just outside Regents Park. Bullet to the head. Sniper.”

Wh-

… _What._

“Oh my god.”

“I was-” he starts, then seems to choke slightly on something in his throat. Jesus Christ, oh my god, is this- “I was standing right next to her.” _Fucking h-_ “Ruined my favorite jumper,” he finishes, and his voice is airy, eyes distant.

It… It can’t actually be _true_. This is Britain, it’s 2016, people don’t… People don’t just get shot down by snipers in the park. It just doesn’t happen. It’s not true. Can’t be. Only… Only it doesn’t really matter if it’s true if he believes it, and he clearly does…

“And your brother-”

“I've not got a-” I bite my tongue to stop myself speaking as he looks up at me, eyes pinning me like a bug.

“You brother came to see me, barely a few hours later.” Brother? Why would Sherlock’s brother come to see him? Perhaps they’re still close? If that’s the case, why hasn’t this brother helped John get the help needs, for god’s sake? God, I might not even be here if this _brother_ had any sense or compassion at all- “Hands me a file.” A… A file? “Most of it was blacked out, of course, but… It was an Interpol file.” Interpol. Interpol? “Had her picture, though she looked…” he trails off for a second, tilting his head to the side, “…different. And the name.”

I feel my brow furrow. The name? What about the name? “You mean ‘Mary’?”

He jerks his head to the side in an oddly spasmodic motion, then pulls his lower lip through his teeth. “Anastasiya Gogol Rita Anastas,” he states plainly.

What the-. I don’t… Who the fuck is- “Anastasiya?”

“Mm,” he nods. “ _Agra_ ,” he spits the word like a curse, “to her old-” another thick swallow, “- _assassin_ chums.”

Assassin. Assassin. _Assassin?_ What on earth- does he think he’s in a Bond film or something? Is that what this is, Bond-based hallucinations? This is- “Assassin?” I repeat. “She was…”

“An assassin, yes,” he responds, then huffs out a dry laugh. “‘Course, I didn’t know that. Fool that I was, I had not a bloody clue. She was just…” his eyebrows draw together slightly, and his eyes turn wet and shiny, “just the beautiful, funny woman I married,” he whispers, and he looks wistful and endlessly sad. _Jesus_. “The woman I wanted to grow old with. The woman who-” his face crumbles for a second, but he settles barely a second later, jaw going taut. “She was pregnant. Three months on.” Wh- No. _Nnnnn_ \- “Baby wasn’t quite viable though.”

This… This can’t be true. None of it, none of this could possibly be _true_ , could it? It’s madness, all of it, sheer insanity. Ghosts from the febrile, unstable mind of a man severely in need of help. But… what can I say? I can hardly convince him of my _name_ , let alone… “I-” I begin, then falter. I shake my head, try again. “I’m so sor-”

“You would have known,” he says, voice a deep, dark whisper.

My eyes flutter, and I push my back ever so slightly harder against the wall. “What?”

“You would have known about her,” he growls, looking up at me, eyes blazing. I suck in a startled breath. “You’d have known- long before I _married_ her. You’d have known. You’d have told me, probably in some tactless, dramatic way, but still, you’d’ve told me and I-” he falters, breaths coming quickly, “things would be-” his voice trembles, “would have been-”

“Dr. Watson,” I interrupt, drawing his eyes back to my face from where they had strayed into the middle distance. “I’m sure you’re right,” I murmur, attempting to make my shaking voice as soothing as possible. “I’m sure… I’m sure your Sherlock would have known, would have done… all those things you said, but…” I hardly think I need to remind him of this, but… “but you said you saw him die.”

He shakes his head vigorously at this, and I frown. “A trick,” he grits out.

“A…” my eyelids flutter in confusion. “A ‘trick’?”

He rolls his eyes and glares at me. “Come on, Sherlock. We both know you’re brilliant. If there’s anyone who could pull it off, it’s you.”

Pull off what? Surviving a jump from the top of a hospital building? Faking his death even after John had _seen his body?_ “Maybe…” It’s no use, really, no point in doing anything other than- than feed his delusions. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and a heavy feeling like lead in my stomach. “Maybe he _is_ alive, somewhere-”

“ _Here._ ”

No. “ _No_ , Dr. Watson,” I counter firmly. “Not here.” I tip my head to the side and bite my lip. “I’m sorry, John,” I whisper, and - oddly enough - I find the words to be sincere. After all, it isn’t his fault that he’s… this way. “I’m sorry for everything that has happened to you. For losing your friend, and your wife, and your-…” _Jesus_ , “your child, but…” I look down at my bandaged hands, shake my head, then look back up at him, determined. “But I am Scott Ford Williams.”

He clenches his jaw and growls, “Sher-”

“This man,” I continue as if he hadn’t spoken, “this Sherlock, he sounds-” great and terrible, madder even than you, “he sounds marvelous, truly, the way you describe him. But- but please, please understand, I’m _not-_ ”

“Stop it.”

“- _him_. I’m not,” I repeat, shaking my head slowly. “I swear it, before God and everyone, I’m-”

“ _Stop._ ”

“- _not Sherlock._ ”

John’s eyes squeeze shut, then flick open with renewed fire, and I lean further back. “Why are you _lying?_ ” he demands, and he looks confused, bewildered.

I shake my head again, hands wringing. “I’m n-”

“We’re in a dirty fucking storage unit, Christ’s sake!” he yells over me. “There’s no one here, no one watching, there aren’t any CCTV cameras on this whole block - your ridiculous _brother_ can’t even see us! Why won’t you just _tell me!_ ”

Jesus _fucking_ Christ. “ _Because I am not him!_ ”

There is a long, ugly pause, during which I glare at him, and he glares back. One of us is mad, the other slowly getting there, and neither of us is convinced of anything the other is saying. There is no winning here, no gaining the upper hand - if there’s even one to be gained. It’s an endless, pointless stalemate, and I’m beginning to think that _neither_ of us will be coming out of this alive.

So then, what have I got to lose?

“Do you even understand how ridiculous this is?” I spit at him, ignoring the odd way he flinches back. “You’ve kidnapped me, drugged me, chained me up in, as you so politely call it, a _dirty fucking storage unit_ , you’re starving me-”

He points a finger. “You’re starving yoursel-”

“And all because I look like a man who topped himself years ago?” I bellow, my eyes narrowing in accusation.

“ _Sherlo-_ ”

 _Not. My. Name._ “Even if he _were_ alive, he couldn’t bring your family back, could he? You said he’s a genius sociopath, not a fucking miracle-worker!”

“He’s- you _are!_ ” he interrupts with a wild gesticulation. “You _are_ a miracle-worker, Sherlock!” What? “No, you couldn’t bring them back, I know that - I’m not _completely_ mad, but…” he runs a weathered hand over his face, “but if you came back, at least- at least-”

“What?” I demand, rage - at him, at myself, the situation, the entire _world_ \- shaking my limbs. “If he came back, _what?_ ”

He looks up at me, expression bewildered, then suddenly… his eyes go soft, jaw slackening. He looks- no. He’s looking at _me_ like I’m… like he-

“At least I’d have you,” he whispers, and it’s rough and ragged, like he pulled the words from deep inside of himself, from the very pit of him. “At least… at least, you’d be here, and I wouldn’t be… alone.” Oh. I suck in a breath. _Oh._ “I… I missed you, Sherlock, I-” his face crumbles again, and his eyes seem to reflect every bit of light in the room. “I still miss you.”

Oh god, no. But… well, of course, actually. Sort of obvious, now that I think about it. The way he bandaged my wrists, holding them like they might shatter. His arms wrapping around me to put the cuffs back on, his stubbled cheek sliding roughly against mine. His hands on my shoulders, squeezing lightly, then smoothing across my collarbone, up my neck, cupping my face. The way he looks at me, that lurking thing in his eyes, pregnant and burning with unspoken words, undisclosed desires.

… He brought me a blueberry scone.

“You loved him,” I whisper, and of course he did, obvious-

“Of course, I loved him,” he says, and my eyes widen at the pronoun. “You,” he corrects quickly. “I loved _you_. I still…” he trails off, heaving out a deep sigh and shaking his head. “I still love you,” he finishes with a melancholy smile.

… I … I don’t know what to say. What to do. None of this makes any sense. Well, _almost_ none of it. Certainly not his actions (kidnapping me, keeping me in a bloody storage unit) or the madness of his alleged past (assassins and snipers and faked deaths galore) but his _motives_ …

What wouldn’t I do to have Mum back?

… Still though, one thing is clear: He won’t hurt or kill me because he loves me ( _Sherlock_ , always _Sherlock_ ), but he will never, ever, _ever_ let me go.

Wait. No. No, that’s not quite right, is it. He’ll never let _Scott_ go, but maybe, just maybe-

“I’ll bring you more water tomorrow,” he murmurs, and I notice that he’s gathered up his bag and keys. He’s leaving. “That should hold you for tonight.”

No, wait. Wait! “John-”

“Your sister. Anita, was it?” he asks, one hand on the door.

I slump forward, nodding. “Yes.”

He turns his head slightly, and his jaw juts out in profile. “Her number’s in your phone?”

Oh my g- does he… Does he believe me? “Y-yes,” I stammer out, nodding vigorously. “Under ‘Annie’.” Will he call her? Will he ask after me? That will prove it, won’t it? He’ll know, he’ll _know_ that I’m not Sherlock, I’m Scott, I’m Scott, I’m _Scott Ford W-_

The metal door slides up with a clank, the light cutting off abruptly, and he’s gone as quickly as he arrived.

—

Frankly, it feels as if I am only now catching my breath. Even without the much-abhorred legwork, this profession can be truly exhausting at times. Perhaps I shall retire early, depart to the countryside, though I’ve no idea how I would keep myself entertained in a bucolic setting; Sherlock and I have that in common, I suppose. Perhaps I’d keep bees, if only to annoy him.

I grip the handset ever tighter, listening to timbre of his dismayed silence.

“The accomplice,” he says at length, “was… _Mary_.”

“Yes,” I sigh out.

“Mary… _Watson_ ,” he clarifies.

“Yes,” I repeat. Usually I would mock him for his presumably slack-jawed shock - even though I myself was quite taken aback at the discovery - but I truly cannot summon the energy.

“You-” he interrupts himself with a huff and continues, “You ran a check on her when she became…” I smile slightly as my brother deliberates his word-choice. Ever so easy to read, our Sherlock, “… _involved-_ ” an amusingly ambivalent choice, “-with John?”

“Of course,” I nod.

“And it turned up nothing.”

“Correct,” I confirm, then let out a rueful sigh. “Seems she was rather cleverer than anticipated, better able to cover her tracks than most.” Annoyingly, I still have not determined how she was able to so seamlessly acquire and assimilate the identity of Mary Morstan. Of course, this is- “Presumably why Moriarty wanted her in his employ.”

Sherlock grunts absently in agreement, then takes a long breath. “She’s dead.”

I can barely recall the last time my brother required this much repetition. Perhaps when he awoke in the car on the journey from hospital to the rehabilitation facili-

**//**

**SYS ERROR: Unapproved Search Parameter. File Access: DENIED. _Compressing… Sealing…_ Complete _._**

**//**

“She was shot down by a bratva sniper seventeen hours ago,” I reply, eyelids fluttering. Error messages are always so jarring, aren’t they. “John was-” I purse my lips, “- _present_ at the time of her murder.” A mild understatement, perhaps an obfuscation, but not an outright lie.

Regardless, I hear Sherlock’s respiration rate increase in anxiety. “Is he alright?”

Ugh, _sentiment._ “He is unharmed.”

There is a long pregnant pause, and I can practically _hear_ the cogs in Sherlock’s head turning. I take solace in the sound for now, knowing that it will come to an abrupt stop in a moment’s time. He does not yet have all the requisite data.

“Well,” he continues after a moment. “We did know they were surveilling John,” he says gamely, and I can hear him nodding. “It’s… simply from a shorter distance than expected,” he allows.

Oh, dear brother, that’s barely the half of it. “Mm,” I hum. “Her methods may have been a bit…” I search for the appropriate word. Language is so very restricting at times, “… _excessive_.”

“ _Excessive_ ,” he repeats, tone steeped in wry amusement. “Says the man with access to four hundred and fifty _thousand_ CCTV cameras in the Greater London area.”

My lips purse further. I suppose there’s no use beating around the bush; Sherlock would hardly appreciate it. “She was pregnant.”

… Ah, yes. The eerie silence of halted machinery. Like a combustion engine stalling out.

“Wh-what,” he stammers, and really, _more_ repetition? Though I suppose I can grant him this one, as the situation truly is appalling.

“I said, she-”

“I heard you,” he growls, and I nod, settling back in my seat. “Mary Morstan was-”

“Mary _Watson,_ ” I correct.

“ _Anastasiya Anastas_ ,” he bites out, and yes, I suppose it would do to be clear, though even that name is technically unconfirmed; certainly it’s the best intel I was able to find via a facial recognition search through Interpol’s database, but it’s entirely possible that that, too, is merely an alias. She is - _was_ \- very truly a cypher of a wom-

“She was pregnant at the time of her murder, how-?” He cuts himself off, as he should when asking such a foolish question.

I roll my eyes. “The usual way, I suppo-”

“How far along?” he interrupts, though I am quite positive that isn’t the question he intended to ask. Silly Sherlock, pining away like a vogue Austen ingénue.

“Twelve weeks,” I respond, and glance down at my nails. Perhaps I’ll have Anthea bring in an approved manicurist this afternoon.

Sherlock makes a soft, sad noise in the back of his throat, and I feel my eyes widen. Inexplicably, I feel a trickling deep in my long since dry well of sympathy. “No chance of survival,” he murmurs.

My brow furrows. “I’m afraid not,” I reply. Amazing, really: my brother can barely understand the emotions of the dull people with whom he surrounds himself, let alone reciprocate them; and yet he feels _so very much_ for John Watson - shares his joy and sadness, his love and pain, as if their circuits were connected through an errant jump wire.

A circumstance both vexing and fantastic, to be sure.

“The child’s father…” Sherlock continues, trailing off. I can tell that even _he_ knows it’s a pointless line of questioning; John Watson would never abandon a child, his or otherwise.

But, perhaps it is all the more saddening that- “DNA testing, as performed by my department, determined the probability of parentage to be ninety-nine point nine-nine in favour of John Watson,” I say, tone circumspect but firm.

A huff of breath comes down the line, and while my brother’s newly-found relationship with _sentiment_ engenders a feeling of great annoyance in me, I suppose it also makes me… _feel_ for him. His happiness has always been of the utmost importance to me, after all.

“Was he aware-” _of his impending fatherhood?_

Would that I could say no, if only to ease that horrid melancholy in your voice, dear brother. “Yes,” I murmur back.

Another long pause as the cogs begin turning again, and I do believe I’ve been caught out. “You lied,” Sherlock states flatly. Caught out, indeed.

I harrumph and adjust my position in the chair. Really must get a new one. “I beg your par-”

“You said John was alright,” he says, biting off the words.

“I said he was _unharmed_ ,” I remind him. He scoffs, and I feel an odd, writhing heat in my stomach like… shame, perhaps? How bourgeois. I glance back down at my nails, turning my hands in the light. “His limp has made a… rather sudden reappearance.”

Sherlock hums, and I can hear the cogs picking up speed, gears kicking in. “I cured it once, I can do it again,” he says with an air of confidence I know to be false. Always a showman, my brother.

“I’m not so certain,” I demur.

“Mar-” he begins, then interrupts himself, clearing his throat. “Moran’s accomplice is dead,” he says, all traces of _sentiment_ suppressed. I admit it’s refreshing, bolstering even, to be back in familiar territory.

“Yes,” I reply, my posture straightening.

“Has my transport to London been arranged?”

I finger the private airline ticket sitting on my desk. It bears the name of a man who is long since dead, and a departure from a strange land to a most unwise destination. “Patience, brother dear,” I say, smoothing the pad of my forefinger over the embossed text.

“ _Patience?_ ” he repeats, tone thick with animosity. His anger is expected - warranted, even - but, nevertheless, impractical in the extreme. “Moran has no alliances, no protection, and nothing to lose, now is the time to strike-”

“We have discussed this, Sherlock,” I remind him, pitching my voice over his. “Moran will be seeking to capture you just as surely as you will him, and if he succeeds-”

A bitter sigh. “Yes, yes,” he mutters, offhand, “any information I impart to him as regards _you-_ ” he spits the pronoun like a curse, “-constitutes a threat to national security- do you have the list?”

Ah, yes. I slide my palm over the thick folder next to the ticket. “List,” I repeat, affecting mild bemusement.

He groans audibly. “Yes, the _list_ ,” he bites out, “the list of potential candidates for the-” his voice lowers in pitch and volume, “- _illegal move_.”

I nod once and glance down at the file. “Well,” I say gamely, “if _one_ constitutes a list, then yes, I have the list.”

A brief pause, during which I await the forthcoming dismay, and… “One? _One?_ ” There it is. “You’ve access to half a _million_ CCTV cameras and you’ve only found _one_ man who looks like me?” And of course, your features are so very, very _common_ , my tall, lissome ( _suppress a sharp bite of jealousy_ ), pale, cat-eyed, sharp-boned, thick-lipped, little brother. “Don’t you have software programs? Facial recognition? Anyth-”

Would that this - that _anything_ \- were so easy. “It’s not that simple, Sherlock,” I mutter around a sigh. “Facial recognition is one thing, but we’re looking for someone with height, weight, bodily proportions, _and_ bone structure not just _similar_ to yours, but nearly _identical_ ,” I scoff and smooth down my tie. “Frankly, I’m surprised we found even one.”

He groans in annoyance, but I can hear the undertone of understanding. “You have a file?” he asks at length.

I place my hand on the mouse, waking my computer, and directing the cursor to the digital file identical to the hard copy on my desk. “Emailing it now.”

I hear the clatter of keys as Sherlock accesses the file I’ve sent him. Taking into account the time it will take for the message to arrive, to download, and for Sherlock to scroll to the photograph, I estimate it will be about twenty seconds before my brother voices the expected (and foolish) objection.

Twenty-two seconds pass, and then… “He’s ginger.”

I roll my eyes. So predictable. “He’s our only option.”

A disgusted sound echoes down the line. “He’s _ginger_.”

More repetition, my annoyance approaches the realm of nausea. “He’s our _only option_ ,” I say again, my tone sharp and cold. “It’s him, or I take you into protective custody.”

He sighs, and I know I have won this round. Really, I don’t know what the fuss is about. Aside from the hair - an admittedly jarring shade of red - this man could very well be Sherlock’s twin. In form alone, of course; intellectually and otherwise, he’s a dull specimen, ordinary at best. Still though, I am almost surprised that, over the course of my brother’s ridiculous travels and adventures, no one has ever mistook him for-

A quick breath, and my brother’s voice comes down the line, irritated but determined. “Scott Ford Williams, it is then.”

—

**END PT. 3**

—


	4. Chapter 4

My eyes flutter open, gummy at the inner corners. I hear a voice close by ( _John_ ) and an odd tinny voice that sounds miles away.

“… Hello, ma’am … Ah, no, actually it isn’t. Could I ask to whom I am speaking?”

John’s back is to me, one hand raised to his ear, the other obscured in front of him. He’s on the phone. Why is he on the ph- wait. Is that _my_ phone? “Wh-”

John turns to face me, and the fluorescent light glints off the grey metal of his handgun. I suck in a breath, scrambling to sit up and pressing my back against the wall. He brings the gun to his lips and purses them, _Shhh._ My eyes turn hot, my lips trembling, but I nod at him all the same.

“… Anita! Perfect.” Anita? _Annie?_ “Sorry, yes, hello, I’m John…” Oh my god, it’s Annie, he’s talking to Annie! “Yes, hello. I- I found this mobile on a bench in Regent’s Park,” _lie_ “and this was the last dialed number…” I lean forward, kneeling with my hands on the cold cement floor. When I open my mouth to speak, he extends his arm with a glare, pointing the gun at my temple. I clench my eyes shut and bite my lip.

“Oh, it’s your brother’s, is it? …Scott. I see.” Oh, Annie, AnnieAnnieAnnieAnnieAn-

Suddenly, John pulls the phone away from his ear and holds it between us. I lift a timid hand to grab it, but he wags the gun in my face. I tip my head down and sit back on my haunches. I see him click the screen a few times out of the corner of my eye and then-

“… is just like him, too. Always so forgetful, our Scott.”

 _Oh_. It’s Annie. It’s Annie’s voice. God, I thought I might never hear it again. _Annie, Annie, I love you, I love you so much, I’m sorry, I’m sorr-_

“Oh, is he,” John says, and I look up at him. His eyes are flat, riveted to mine.

“Completely,” she says with her soft little laugh. I can’t help but smile, and the motion pushes fat tears down my cheeks. “He’s only locked himself out of his flat a hundred times.”

I nearly laugh at that, but stifle myself at the last minute, covering my mouth with my shaking hands.

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says. Was her voice always so melodious? The hand pressed against my lips is wet with tears, and my nose is clogged - I feel like I might start sobbing. I smile instead; I know what she’s going to say next: _He’d forget his h-_ “He’d forget his head if it weren’t attached to his neck.” My eyes close tightly, pushing more tears over the lashes.

John huffs out a strained laugh, and I feel him take a small step away from me. “I see. Look, do you know where I could find him, your brother? Is he staying somewhere in London or-?”

 _Here. I’m right here._ “Well, he’s meant to be visiting our cousin Maggie,” _I love you, too, Maggie. Silly cow._ “But she’s not back from holiday until tomorrow.” _Tomorrow_. So today’s Saturday then? God, when did I lose track? “I’ve no idea where he’s staying until then.”

John harrumphs, and I peer up at him. He looks… bemused. “Ah, well,” he says ruefully, though his face is anything but. His eyes are still locked onto mine. “Bad luck.”

I hear Annie sigh, and it’s a sound I’ve heard a thousand times, usually preceding the phrase _Ford, you eejit._ “Yes, well, hopefully he’ll give you a call from the hotel phone or something,” she says, then laughs softly. I’ve always loved her laugh. “But knowing him, he likely hasn’t even noticed he’s lost the silly thing!” She laughs again, and I can picture her in my mind - long wavy hair, redder even than mine, swaying as she shakes her head in amusement. “He’s there for another week yet though, so I’m sure - well, I _hope_ \- he’ll give you ring before then.”

John still hasn’t looked away from my face. It’s unnerving, and I struggle to keep my wits about me. “Ha,” he laughs insincerely, “alright then. Thanks for your help. _Anita_.” He says her name in an odd tone; I don’t like it. He should never say her name, never.

But Annie, my Annie, is just as she always is: a bit oblivious and endlessly sweet. “No no, thank _you_ , John. Truly. Half of London would’ve just pawned the thing.”

“Ah well, I’m not so bad as all that.” He quirks a brow at me, and I glare back. _I hate you._

There’s a loud, indistinct voice in the background, followed by a soft grumble that I recognise as her husband, Trevor. “Oh bugger,” she curses, “they’re calling our reservation, sorry, I’ve got to- do you mind if I-?”

“Oh, no worries, all fine,” John says, and it’s another lie, ‘all fine’. _Nothing_ is fine. “Hope it all gets sorted.”

“Yes, me, too. Thank you again!” No, please, please don’t go, Annie. Please, just stay on the line, keep talking, keep-

“Of course.”

“Bye now.” Keep talking to me, love, I need your voice, I need-

“Cheers.”

_Beep beep._

She’s gone. She’s… gone.

There’s a terrible feeling in my chest, one I’ve never had before. Never been much of a one for strong emotions, tumult. Though, I suppose I did get rather depressed after Mum passed; nearly thirty years old, and I pictured myself an orphan. But Annie was there, and Trevor, and baby Kirkland, and Maggie, and Dinger the cat, and Mrs. Edgeworth, and Seth who’d just moved to town, and all my bright, silly students, and the whole faculty-

There’s… There’s no one now. No one here. Just me and him. And the ghosts. So many ghosts.

I pull in a deep breath, expanding my lungs as far as they’ll go, but that horrid empty feeling persists. I am alone. I am… _alone_.

“Was that Anthea, then?”

My head shoots up, my eyes latching to John’s. He’s staring at me intently, the odd tinge of bemusement still lingering. _Anthea?_ I shake my head. “It’s Anita,” I correct, and my voice is thin and gravelly. “Her name is Anita.”

He keeps staring, and, inexplicably, I feel tears welling up again. “Right, of course,” he says with a huff of sarcastic laughter. He purses his lips. “My, you’ve really covered your tracks on this one.”

My eyes fall closed. Too exhausted to keep them open. I feel a few tears leak from the corners. “I haven’t,” I whisper.

“Pretty well done, Sherlock.” _Don’t call me that._ “I could almost buy it.” He snorts then, and it’s an ugly sound. “Bet you’ve got a Facebook set up and everything.”

I nearly snort back; of course, I’ve got a Facebook. _Everybody’s_ got a Facebook, how else are we to live vicariously through more interesting peop-

Wait.

 _Wait_.

I _do_ have a Facebook. And an Instagram. Snapchat. Tinder. Not to mention countless public records, licenses, everything. Oh my god, why didn’t I think of- I can prove it! I can show him, _prove_ to him who I am, I- “I do! I do have a Facebook!” I say, rising from my haunches and gesturing wildly at my phone still clutched in his hand. “Look at it, check it, please, you’ll see-”

He closes his eyes, scrunching up his face. “Christ’s sake, Sherlock, I’m not gonna check your bloody _Facebook-_ ”

No, that’s fine. It’s fine, there are others, there’s more, there’s- “Public records, then! My birth certificate, or-or my QTS, or I-” shit, what else is there? This is it, the only option, my last chance, _think!_ Er… Oh! “I did my initial teacher training at Perth College ten years ago,” I blurt out, the words tumbling over each other. I can prove it, I _know_ I can, only…

He’s staring at me, expression supremely unimpressed. What? No, I… No.

He couldn’t - _Sherlock_ \- he couldn’t… couldn’t fake all that, even if he _was_ a genius. He couldn’t mock up a QTS, an ITT from ten bloody years ago, a birth certificate from _thirty-six_ years ago or- or _any_ of it. It’s not possible! There’s- there’s- “There’s got to be some record, something to _prove_ -”

There’s an odd choking sound, and I look up at him. He’s looking down, expression obscured, but his shoulders are quaking. He’s… he’s _laughing_ at me.

… Oh. Of course. Right. It doesn’t matter, does it? If I’m not _Sherlock_ , then I’m not… not anyone.

He looks up, that antagonistic mirth still lingering in his eyes, and I- I’m so- I hate you, I _hate_ you, _I HATE Y-_ “Yes, I’m sure you and your _brother_ have got all your paperwork in ord-”

“ _Then what do I do!_ ”

He jerks back, hands clenching. I hear the glass of the phone squeak against his skin as the gun in his other hand shines in the light. He may as well kill me, may as well kill us both.

“If I can’t prove it to you,” I whisper, my eyes glued to the gun. “If you won’t- won’t believe me no matter what I do, then…” I trail off, sucking in several quick breaths as the tears come back. “Then what am I supposed to say?” I look up at him, and I can barely see him through the wetness in my eyes.

His eyes don’t soften. Not a bit. “The _truth_ , Sherlock.”

I groan in impotent rage and bring my hands to clutch at my hair. “There _is_ no _truth_! I’ve told you-” heart’s beating so fast, “I’ve told you everything,” can’t breathe, “everything I possibly can,” can’t, oh god, can’t _breathe_ , “everything I know, but I’m not- I’m _not_ -”

“Do you think you’re protecting me?”

I look up at him, my hands sliding to wrap around my throat as I balk at him, panting heavily. “ _Protecting y_ -” God, is he an idiot _and_ mad? “I’d _kill_ you for this,” I whisper viciously. “This is- this is-” madness, insanity, _ridiculous_ , I can’t even-

“Would that make you a serial killer?”

My eyelids flutter, my brows dropping down in confusion. A serial k- “What?”

He tilts his head to the side, eying me curiously. “If you killed yourself, and then me.” _Oh god_. “Would that make you a serial killer?”

I feel my face crumple, my lips turning forcefully downwards, and I just barely hold in a sob. “I didn’t k-kill myself,” I stammer out.

“Ha,” he laughs thickly. “Well, that much is clear.”

… I… I can’t get enough air in my lungs, and there’s nothing, no one. Just me and him. Him and me. And ghosts, and ghosts, and _ghosts_.

I crawl to him on hands and knees - all shame, all dignity forgotten. “Please,” I whisper, and my torso is pressed against his legs, my hands clenched in his jumper, my chin - wet with tears - pushing into his navel. I look up into his eyes, and he looks down into mine. “Please, John.” I beg of you, I’m begging, on my knees, please, please- “Please let me go.”

My voice is barely audible, but I know he hears me. He brings the hand holding the gun to my face. The backs of his fingers, still clutched around the grip, smooth over my cheekbone, the barrel of the gun pointed harmlessly at the wall behind me. He looks down into my face, expression fond, nearly serene.

“… No.”

—

“The partition is in place?”

“It’s not a partition, it’s a _room.”_

I huff in annoyance and grip the handset ever tighter. “Is it _ready_ , Sherlock?”

“ _Yess_ ,” he hisses, and I hear the rustling of some sort of thick fabric - canvas, perhaps? Ah, luggage.

I purse my lips at the lateness of my brother’s preparation. Always such a procrastinator. “You do realise that Moran will very likely kill Scott Ford Williams,” I remark absently, glancing down at my nails. Three weeks since my last manicure, and the cuticles are already rough and uneven; one would think I was employed as a manual laborer. “Innocent bystander or no,” I add.

I hear his movements halt as he breathes an annoyed sigh. “Sacrifices must be made for the greater good,” he intones. “Isn’t that what you always say?”

I tilt my head to the side. “Not always.”

He makes an irritated little scoff in the back of his throat. “For god’s sa- you said it yourself, it’s _this_ or you take me into custody,” he blusters, “and I will _not_ let you stick me in some MI5 safe house to rot. So, it’s _this._ ”

I sigh and wonder briefly if his goal in life is turn my hair white with stress and vexation. “Sherlock, I am only-”

“You’re only letting _sentiment_ cloud your judgement,” he bites out, and my eyebrows rise. I let my amusement at the hypocrisy of this statement permeate the silence between us, and I hear him harrumph in discomfort. “ _Moran_ ,” he says, stressing the name as he knows it will draw my attention, “still has the ability to hold John, you, me, this entire _country_ hostage.” Well, he’s certainly not wrong about that, but- “If one man’s death- if _Scott Ford Williams’_ death can prevent that…”

He trails off uncharacteristically, and I let out a heavy breath. He’s right, of course, and it’s not as if I didn’t predict it. Collateral damage. Hardly an ideal outcome, but… I nod and swallow audibly. “So be it,” I murmur.

“Should-” I begin, then cut myself off abruptly. I feel a growing sense of dread opening up in the pit of my stomach - too many variables, not enough time, unpreventable collateral damage, sacrifices, sacrifices, even more sacrifices necessary to earnthewin _, you’reastupidlittleboy_ unpredictableopponent _soverystupidSherlock brilliancy_ randomfeatsofgenius _didyouwanttodieSherlock? wereyoutryingtokillyours-_

**//**

**SYS ERROR: Unapproved File Access. _Repairing data corruption…_ Repairs complete. _Compressing… Sealing…_ Complete _._**

**//**

I shake my head in a brief susurrus of motion and take a short breath. Try again. “Should Scott survive-”

“There’s a codeword,” Sherlock interjects. His tone is soft, almost cautious, and I know he has observed my brief… _aberration_. I smile slightly. As much as he claims to loathe me, I can tell by his reaction to these occasional phenomena that there’s a small, unacknowledged part of him that still thinks me infallible. It is… heartening.

“Well,” he interrupts my maudlin thoughts, his tone returning to normal, “code- _phrase_ , rather. I’ve sent it to your mobile.”

I nod briskly. “Of course.” I adjust my tie, then peer down at the face of my phone. A text message shines on the screen, backlit. I smirk at the phrase he has chosen. My brother, ever the sentimentalist.

A quick glance at my watch. Needs polishing. “Your transport will arrive within the hour,” I confirm.

I hear the metallic buzz of a zip and the plop of a suitcase landing on a thin mattress. “I’ll be ready,” he responds, voice flat in an attempt to hide his obvious excitement.

I nod as the rings off, dial tone blaring in my ear. Setting the handset back in its cradle, I allow myself to lean gracelessly back in my chair with a soft grunt. I’ve ordered a replacement, but I fear I may develop a severe case of sciatica before it arrives.

Of course, that’s the very least of my worries, when Sherlock is ( _finally_ ) coming home.

—

I’ve only just settled myself back in the chair when I hear the snick of the padlock opening. Shit. _Shit._ I’m not ready yet, I’m not- Christ, I’m not an actor, can barely even tell a _lie_ , for god’s sake, how am I supposed to pretend to be someone else?

No. _No._ I can do this, I _can._

The metal door slides up, clanking all the way.

There’s no room for doubt, for second guessing. Ford isn’t getting out of here, but maybe, just maybe, _Sherlock_ can.

John, be-jumpered as usual, steps into the room. It’s barely dawn, the row of units behind him mildly illuminated with soft, indigo light. He steps inside and doesn’t greet me, but that’s good. Bide my time.

He lowers the door and turns to face me, the keys held loosely in his hand. I can see the outline of the gun in his pocket.

_My name is Sherlock Holmes._

_My name is Sherlock Holmes._

_My name is Sh-_

“Well, look at that. You drank the water,” he says with a smirk.

I lift an eyebrow, and follow his line of sight to the jug of water he’d brought me two days hence. I look back up at him, trying my damnedest to mask any trace of emotion. “John,” I say flatly.

He sniffs and folds his arms over his chest. “I was worried I might have to steal some supplies from the clinic, set you up an IV drip,” he mutters.

 _My name is Sherlock Holmes._ “John.”

“Still not eaten though,” he murmurs, glancing at the small mountain of unopened energy bars next to the mat. He shrugs and raises his eyebrows. “Suppose that’s alright,” he continues, and cracks a smile. “Cleaned up after your disgusting experiments enough times, I’m not particularly inclined to clean up your actual shit.”

_My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am Sherlock Holmes._

“ _John_.”

“So, I’m thinking your _cousin_ will likely call me when you don’t show today,” he says, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “Honestly, I’m a bit surprised they’ve not tracked us here since the call yester-”

 _I_ am _Sherlock Holmes._

“It _was_ to protect you.”

… He goes still, as if turned to stone, and his face goes blank. His jaw slackens for a moment, nearly hanging, and I stare up at him blankly. _I am Sherlock Holmes. I’m a high-functioning genius sociopath. I am_ Sherlock Holmes _._

“Wh…” he trails off, eyes losing focus, and he seems a bit faint, all the colour draining from his face. “What,” he whispers, his tongue clicking hard on the _t_.

Oh, god. Oh my god… It’s _working._

“All of it,” I say, gaining confidence, but not yet allowing myself to hope. “All of this. It’s to protect you.” Tell him what he wants to hear. He wants Sherlock - _loves_ Sherlock. Give him Sherlock.

His eyes slowly rise, reticent, to meet my own. He looks… Well, he looks how I feel: devastated, terrified, beyond hope. _Détruit._ “Sher-lock,” he whispers, anguished voice cutting out on the second syllable.

Yes. Yes, that’s me. I _am_ Sherlock. “Yes,” I reply, careful to keep my voice level and even.

He stares at me in dismay for what feels like minutes. And perhaps it is - I’ve lost all concept of time. If John’s here, I suppose I can safely assume that it’s ‘sixish’, but-

He makes a wretched sound like a choking sob, and I just barely restrain myself from flinching back. The destroyed, hollow look is gone now, replaced with something I’ve never seen before: a trembling, ruddy, _seething_ rage.

I take a deep breath, slow enough to keep silent. I expected this part, though perhaps not the intensity of it. He might hit me, might hurt me, but he’s gone to all this trouble to get Sherlock back, I know he won’t kill me. If I can surpass this, if I can outlast his anger, then there’s a chance I can-

“Why now,” he growls, and I see now that this - _this_ \- is the thing that lurks.

But I’m prepared for this one, too. “We’re not safe here,” I reply, thickening my voice with intensity. If I’ve fallen into a Bond film - a strange Bond film, mind you, where Bond is dead, and Q goes mad with grief - then I ought to be able to use his lines.

“My wife was murdered in front of me forty-three days ago,” John grits out, throwing his arms down and stalking toward me. “We’re not safe _anywhere_.”

I clench my jaw, the only show of discomfort I allow myself. He’s… closer than I’d like. I nearly scoff at that thought - if this goes according to plan, we’ll be getting quite a lot closer. “John-”

“Why,” he whispers, curling himself to tower over me. I feel my body tauten in an attempt not to cower. “ _Why_ , Sherlock.”

… It’s the question that kept me up most of last night. I can’t even guess at why he - why _Sherlock_ \- would do such a thing; it’s insane at best, evil at worst. But, really, it doesn’t matter. Sherlock is dead ( _I am Sherlock Holmes_ ). The best I can do - the only chance I’ve got - is to tell John what he wants to hear, to give him what he needs.

I look up at him, keeping my expression painfully neutral, and state plainly, “You were in danger.”

He balks at this, barking out an incredulous laugh, and his voice cracks when he says, “So you _killed yourself?_ ”

I swallow, my lips turned down, and dip my head. “It was the only way to protect you.”

“Really,” he says, breathy with dismay. “Making me watch you die was the _only_ way.”

“I didn’t…” _Bet it soothes your God complex. Or maybe your Asperger’s - being right - high-functioning sociopath…_ But, no. That’s not what John wants, not what he believes. _Always figured you were just different and… lonely._ Yes. Yes, that’s what John wants.

I look up at him, jaw tight, eyes wide, intending to convey just enough emotion to calm him down, to settle him, but not enough to break the illusion. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I murmur, eyes glued to his. “John.”

My brow furrows as he does that thing again - smiling in anger, eyes blurred with tears. “Oh, you didn’t _hurt_ me, Sherlock,” he whispers, reaching out to grip the back of the chair just behind my shoulders, his face so close it’s out of focus. “You _ruined-_ ” he leans ever closer, “-my _entire-_ ” his breath condenses against my cheek, turning it moist and warm, “ _… life._ ”

My breathing has picked up, I’m nearly panting now, and he’s so close - _too_ close - and- and- Oh god, I can’t do this. I can’t do this, I _can’t_ , I just-. I’m not a pretender, I’m _not_ Sherlock Holmes, and this man, John Watson, is- is - ( _détruitdétruitdétruit_ ) - he’s _deluded_ , for Christ’s sake, and…

… I don’t want to die here.

_He won’t kill me…_

… I don’t want him to hurt me. I’m tired and cold and terrified, I could hardly stop him if he tried-

 _He won’t hurt me. Misses me. Needs me._ Loves _me…_

… Not me. _Him._ The ghost.

I _am the ghost._ (I am Sherlock Holmes)

…

He’ll never let me go.

…

_He’ll never let me go._

_“_ I’m sorry.”

His face scrunches up. “…You what?” he asks in dismay, and this close up, his features are blurry, doubled, indistinct. They exist independent of one another; not a face, per se, but a collection of parts: two eyes, a nose, furry brows, thin lips, and weathered skin like wrinkled paper. He could be anyone, anyone at all. _I_ could be anyone at all.

I am Sherlock Holmes.

( _I am Scott Ford Williams._ )

“I’m sorry, John,” I whisper, my hands reaching up to clutch at his forearms. I don’t know what he sees in my face, but his eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and I lean further into him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, but…” _Of course, I loved you_ , he said. _I still… I still love y-_ “but I had to protect you. I…” I shake my head slightly, perturbed with myself. The words are coming before I even think of them - God, am I _thinking_ at all? I feel cold and hot all at once, like I’m barely inside my own bod-

Oh _._

_Oh._

… I’m floating now, hovering over myself, watching as I cling to John’s arms. He looks down at me, and there’s something growing, blossoming in his face. The blankness, that vast emptiness in his eyes that seems to reflect everything and reveal nothing, is filling up, disappearing as it’s replaced with something _real._ He looks awed. Humbled. _Terrified._

His knees buckle, and I watch as my legs part slightly so that he may crumble between them. I see his hands release their grip on the chair, slide over my shoulders, and smooth over my neck to tangle in my hair. I feel nothing.

“You what,” I hear him repeat, though I don’t so much _hear_ him as read the movement of his lips.

“Please, John,” I see myself whisper, my head dipping down closer to his. “Please.”

He pants out a sigh, the breath brushing the overlong strands of my hair against my cheekbone. I feel nothing, nothing at all. “ _Sherlock-_ ”

He’s kissing me. He’s… he’s _kissing_ me.

His lips are pressed against mine, forceful and rough, and I’ve never seen a kiss like this. His fingers clench at my hair, pulling me closer to him. No. Not closer, _further_. Further into him, deeper, like he intends to devour me, to pull me inside of himself and keep me there. He sucks my lower lip into his mouth, and I see a glimmer of white as he sinks his teeth into it, not enough to break the skin, but enough to make me whimper. His tongue is slick and warm as it smoothes over the indentations left from the bite, and it burns and hurts and aches and feels so-

Feels so-

 _Feels_ so-

Oh, _god_.

I’m back, present, inside my body again, and I can feel, I can _feel him_. His chest is pressed against my ribcage, and I feel his heart beating fast, feel my own pounding arrhythmically against my breastbone. His scent fills my nose - tea, sanitiser, bitter whiskey, sharp aftershave - and I’m choking, stifled. His hands, _god_ , his hands are burning hot, branding my throat, callused and chafing my skin. He tastes like- like salt and scotch and sorrow and _rage_ , and he bites my tongue, pulls it into his mouth, pushes it back into mine, and back and forth, and back and forth, pouring himself into me then stealing me away, and his hands tighten on my throat, oh my _god_ , too much, too much, _too much-_

I wrench my head back, and suck in a breath like I’m drowning. “I’m sorry,” I choke out, “I’m sorry, I’m so-”

“Christ, _Sherlock-_ ” He says my name like a prayer and presses his open mouth against mine, breathing my air, tapping the tip of his tongue against the inside of my bottom lip. _Jesus-_

Wait. I… _He says my name like a prayer_.

 _My name_. My _name_.

… _Sherlock._

No.

_No._

… _NO._

I’m not, no, I’m not, I’m - _I am not him!_ I am _not_ Sherlock Holmes, I’m Ford, I’m _Ford_ , I’m Scott Ford Williams, from Dorset, a schoolteacher, a scorpio, I’ve got a cat, I- I-

I have to get out of here.

John bites at my parted lips, and I clench my eyes shut, stammering, “W-we have t-to-” _bite_ , oh Jesus, let me go, let me out, _LET ME O-_ “I’ll explain, I’ll ex-explain everything,” _bite_ , fuck, “-but w-we-”

“Sh, shut up, just-”

 _Ohh_ god, _fffff-_ “John- _haahh ah,_ John we have to-”

“You ruined me,” he groans, and he squeezes at my throat, and it’s- oh my _god_ , it’s- yes, _yes—_

No no no _no_ _NO._ “I’m sorry-”

 _Bite._ God, that stings. Salt, so much salt, tears? Are they mine? Or his? He moans, _moans_ , deep and dark, and it quakes the floor beneath our feet.

He pulls my hair hard, whispers into my mouth, “Nearly killed me, it nearly fucking _killed me-_ ”

Bloody fu- “ _Ah, ah! Gg-_ I’m sorry, I’m s-”

“-to, _ah yes yesss_ , to lose you,” What’s happening? Jesus Christ, what’s _happening?_ “Losing you, it nearly- nearl-”

His _tongue_ , Jesus, I can’t- “I’m so - _nnggh ha ahh! -_ I’m so sorry-”

“God, I love-” _oh my God_ , “I fucking _love_ y-”

“Forgive me, forgive me, _please-_ ”

And it stops.

… He’s still leaning into me, mouth smeared across mine, but he’s immobile, inanimate, unnaturally so. Even his breath has halted, and I feel the moisture on my face - saliva? tears? - drying up, tightening my skin with a persistent itch. Can’t even hear his heart beating, Jesus, is he-? What’s happeni-

He pulls back, the motion strangely slow, until there’s nearly a foot of space between us, and his hands rise slowly from my shoulders to hang limply in the air. His face is a mask of bewilderment, of dread - shiny lips slightly parted, nostrils flared, eyes unfocussed and almost comically wide.

… He _knows._

I shake my head in a tiny, quick movement. “J-… John?”

Of a sudden, his breath comes back, stuttering with stops and starts as he inhales gustily, and his eyes flicker ominously.

He knows, he knows, he _knows._ “John,” I whisper.

“Not your area.”

The words come out in a deep, barely audible grumble, and I’m not sure if I’ve heard him correctly. “I-… What?”

“This,” he says, marginally louder, though his eyes are still wide and distant. “This isn’t… you don’t do this,” he murmurs, breath hitching, and his brow furrows. “You’ve _never_ done this.”

Oh, god, he really does know. Shit, shit, _shiiit._ This was… _not_ supposed to happen. Not good, not at all, oh so very, very not good. John might’ve let _Sherlock_ go, but… not Ford. No, Scott Ford Williams doesn’t get out of this alive.

I swallow thickly, and of course, of _course_ , the moment I decide to be _Sherlock_ is the moment he decides that I’m _not_. _“_ I- I don’t-”

“You never apologise,” he says, and his tone is a little closer to normal, though still coloured with dismay. His eyes focus and cut sharply to mine. “You never say _please_. You don’t.. _do this._ ”

Oh, yes. Right. _You’re not ‘my Sherlock’,_ he said. _You were never that._ Stupid, so stupid of me. The man was a _sociopath_ , for Christ’s sake; John may have loved him, but, of course, he couldn’t possibly reciprocate. _Shit._ “John, I-”

“You would never do this,” he says again, and there’s a dawning in his eyes, like he’s seeing something for the first time. And perhaps he is. “We were never… you and I - _Sherlock_ and I - we never…” Oh my god, third person, _third person._ “He would never do this.”

I stare down at him, and my resolve crumbles, any remaining bits of the façade disintegrating into the ether. _I am Scott Ford Williams._ “J-John…” I don’t know what to say.

“You’re not… you’re…”

Nothing left to say at all, really. “John…”

He sucks in a breath and collapses down onto his haunches. “You’re not him.” Finally. _Finally._ And it’s almost worth dying in a filthy storage unit at Big Yellow, Battersea just to hear him say those words. “You’re not… you’re not _Sherlock_.”

_Finally._

“No,” I whisper, and my shoulders slump - though in relief or defeat, I don’t know. “No, I’m not.”

He squeezes his eyes shut at the confirmation, as if some tiny part of him still held out hope that… Well, I suppose we all wish that someone we love hadn’t been lost.

“But-” he starts, then shakes his head violently. He leans in close to peer into my face, eyes flicking over my features. “You look- you look _just_ like…” Yes, well. Not like England’s got a particular large gene pool. There could well be a hundred men who look like Sherlock Holmes. Selfishly, I can’t help but wish that John had taken one of them instead.

His breathing speeds up, face going a startling shade of white, and- oh god, he might be hyperventilating now. “Oh, god,” he whispers, nearly choking on the words. “Oh my god.” I can see his pulse in his throat, rapid like a hummingbird’s. “Oh my god- you’re.. You’re really not-” his head bobs quickly up and down with the intensity of his breaths. Panic attack? _Heart_ attack? “You’re… you’re…” he stammers, and his eyes lock imploringly onto mine, begging me.

Begging me for what? The truth? God, I hardly know what that is anymore. Only thing I know for sure, at this precise moment, is that- “I’m Ford,” I murmur, voice soft but firm. “Scott Ford Williams.”

“Oh,” he says brokenly, and it is so very inappropriate a word, so unrealistic a response to this situation that I nearly laugh out loud. God, I might be hysterical.

I nod my head, biting at my lip. Will he- might he-… Maybe he _will_ let me go?

John’s head is shaking back and forth repetitively, and he looks lost, shattered, _détruit._ “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, and the sincerity, the depth of it widens my eyes. He… He’s _sorry?_ “Oh my god, I’m so sorry- I’m so, I’m so.. Christ, I grabbed you, I-I _took_ you, _Jesus fff-_ ”

He looks a bit faint now, and I’d really rather he didn’t. Need the keys, where are the keys? “It’s alright, John,” I tell him, and I can almost believe it. Hope, there’s _hope_ again, and it’s rushing through my veins, waking me up, granting me second wind. “It’s fine, I’m fine, just…” I trail off briefly as I reach down and grip his shoulders in my hands, looking him dead in the eyes. “You have to let me go, John,” I say firmly. “You _have_ to, John. You can’t-” My breath hitches at the look on his face. I might make it out of here alive, I might actually _survive_ this- “-can’t keep me here.”

His breath still comes in hitching, panting bursts as he stutters, “I ch-chained you up, I-” he looks down at his hands, staring at them like he’s never seen them before. “I pointed a _gun_ at you, I-”

No, no no no, don’t think of the _gun_ now, just- “John-”

But it’s too late, he’s already slipping his hand into his pocket, already pulling it out, already pointing it at me, and oh god oh god oh god oh g- I feel cold metal press against my… palms.

It’s… it’s not pointing at me. Quite the opposite, in fact, it’s pointing at… John reaches into his other pocket and pulls out his keys, grasps the smallest one with shaking fingers. My breath stutters out as he slides the key into the lock between my wrists and… _click._

Oh my god. Oh my _god, I’m free._

He stands up in a flurry, and I see him sway for a second with head rush. I nearly reach out an arm to stop him falling on me, only he sets himself to rights pretty quickly and, well, I’m holding a bloody _gun._

He makes a swift volte face, takes two short steps, and crouches down, pulling the metal door upwards. Morning light floods the room, though I can tell the sun has just barely risen, and I’m blinded for a moment by the brilliance of it.

When he stands back up, I can only see his silhouette, edged with golden light, like a conductor burning with electricity.

“You can,” he murmurs, and through my squinted eyes I just barely see him nod toward my hands. “You can- you can do it. S’alright.”

Do it? Do wh- oh. _Oh._ “Wh-What.” No, I… _No._

“You _can_ ,” he says, louder this time. “I-” he blows out a harsh breath, almost a sob. “I _abducted_ you, I…” You need help. You need _help._ “It’s- it’d be self-defense,” No. _No._ “I-.. I deserve it,” Doesn’t matter, that _doesn’t matter_ , I _won’t_ \- “You can- you can do it. It’s fine, it’s all- all f-fine.”

You’re mad, you’re _mad_ , yes. Not evil. You need help, not- not _bullets_. Even if I wanted to, “I _can’t_ , John, I-”

“You said,” he shakes his head, and the bright spots in my vision fade away, just enough that I can make out his face. He looks - fuck - _desperate_. God, he _wants_ this, _wants_ me to _ki_ \- “You said you’d kill me for this-”

“I didn’t-” _mean_ it, you idiot! God, I don’t even know how to turn the safety off! And even if I did, I’m not a killer, a murderer, I’m not _mad_ like you. “I- I was just-just- I can’t _actually-_ ”

“No, it’s alright, it’s-” he cuts himself off abruptly, brow furrowing then smoothing into blankness as his jaw hangs. His eyes have dropped to my chest, widening in something like… terror?

God’s sake, what _now?_ “John?” I ask, then follow his line of sight. Oh. There’s a tiny red stain on my shirt. Odd, how did that get th-

No. Not a stain. It’s moving, flickering ever so slightly like… a laser pointer? “What’s-”

“Vatican cameos,” he whispers.

Vatican _what?_ What on earth does that even m-

—

**END PT. 4**

—


	5. Chapter 5

What have I done.

What have I done.

_What have I done._

A resounding _crack!_ , and we’re both flat on the floor. On instinct, I scrabble as close to the side wall as I can and sit up, pressing my back against the bit of wall framing the metal door. From this angle, I can see a chair with the back blown out and a huge, cracking rupture in the concrete of the back wall.

Another _crack!_ , and Christ, we’re under attack.

Reach for my radio, but I’ve not got it. _Shit._ What, did I leave it at base like a bloody crowbag? _Crack!_ Blood on the floor - fuck, he’s hit. Thru-and-thru? No, can’t see an exit wound. He’s scrambling over to me - left arm, bullet lodged in bice- no, brachialis muscle, where’s my kit, need my fucking kit, gotta stop the bleeding, he’s - Sherlock - is, no, he’s- he’s not- he’s not Sh-

Oh my god. Oh _Jesus_ , what the fuck is going on.

“John,” he’s right in front of me, grabbing at me with his good arm, “come on-”

“Wha-” the fuck, what the fuck? Who are you? _Who are you?_

“ _John_.”

I’m shaking, shaking hard. Core temperature dropping. Can’t breathe, can’t breathe. Where am I? Slide my hand over my chest, where’s my radio? I’ve got to- I have to call base and- “I don’t-”

His hands are on my face, forcing me to look at him. _Sherl-_ “The year is 2016,” he says, quick and firm, “you’re in a storage facility in Battersea, London, England, UK, and we have to get _out of here_. Come on, come on!” He’s standing up now, pulling me to my feet, but my knees are wobbly and weak. “ _Now_ , John, quickly!” More _pops_ in the distance - gunshots, but far away, muffled. Inside a building somewhere? Or one of these, what are they, storage units? God, where the fuck-

My arm is pulled in front of me as I’m dragged out of the unit and into a wide, paved corridor, and I recognise this place. I’ve been here before, this is- this is-

Oh, god. Oh, my god.

_Scott._

We’re at the gate now, and I don’t know how we got here from the unit. He’s flicking open the gate control panel, smoothing his fingers over the numbers before typing. *. 1. 2. 6. 8. 2. 4. 2. #.

The gate makes a low buzzing sound, and slides open slowly. Sher- _Scott_ pulls me through the moment there’s enough space for us to fit, and drags me to the curb, just as two sleek, black town cars pull up. Little flags near the mirrors, no plates.

_Mycroft._

What the ffff- “What’s-”

“We have to separate. Get in,” Scott says, pulling open a door and pushing me towards the leather-lined back seat.

I shake my head, “I-”

“We’re too big a target together,” he says, glaring at me. “Get _in_ , John. I’ll be right behind you,” he assures, jerking his head toward the other car.

Right behind me? Where are we going? Hospital? He needs medical attention- “Y-you’re bleeding-”

He shakes his head vigorously. “It’s nothing, flesh wound, just _get in-_ ”

He pushes down on my head until my knees buckle, and I crumble down into the back seat. What the fuck is happening- wha- “Scott-”

He looks down at me, eyes sharp and jaw clenched. He looks like he’s deliberating, like there are a thousand different things he wants to say.

He shakes his head once. “I’m not Scott,” he whispers, and closes the door.

—

Well. This certainly could have gone better. I tip my head to the side, eying the shivering, wide-eyed man on my settee. I suppose it could have gone worse, as well.

I quirk a smile as he presses thick, shaking fingers against his temples. I pride myself on the accuracy of my very first deduction of John Watson: this man has most certainly been the making of my brother. _And_ made him worse than ever.

Though, by the state of them both right now, I imagine that goes both ways.

I step fully into the room, pulling the heavy wooden door behind me until there’s only an inch of space between it and its frame. He looks up at me, eyes glazed but sharp, and I take several cautious strides across the room. I sit on the small sofa across from him, folding my legs. A sliver of Anthea’s face appears through the crack in the door, and I nod to grant her entry. She comes in silently, and John’s eyes don’t stray from me.

I nod once, circumspect. This should be interesting. “Hello, John.”

He’s panting slightly, eyes flickering over my face. “…Mycroft,” he responds at length.

A violent shiver shakes his body, and I look over at Anthea. “A blanket for Dr. Watson please, Anthea,” I murmur, then settle my eyes back on John. “He seems to be in shock.”

He clenches his jaw and shakes his head once, eyes squeezing tightly shut. “A-acute stress r-reaction,” he stammers out. “Goes hand in hand with-”

“Your PTSD, yes,” I cut in and hum. “I’m aware.”

He huffs out a tiny breath of laughter, eyes still closed. “’Course you are.”

I smile ruefully. While entanglements of a romantic nature have never held my interest, I do understand my brother’s… shall we say, _infatuation_ with this man. Superficially, he’s ordinary in the extreme, his words and actions often trite and expected, but… The _spirit_ of him, for lack of a better word, the mysterious science that makes him _tick_ … He is remarkably unpredictable, at times. Impossible to anticipate with any sureness of accuracy. Perhaps not a worthy opponent, but an all _too_ worthy ally. A better ally than my brother ever expected, perhaps better than he deserves.

I clear my throat as Anthea deposits a folded woolen blanket on John’s lap. “Is there anything else you need?” I inquire. “A beverage or snack? Perhaps you’d like the elevate your fe-”

“What,” he growls, balling his hands in the fabric of the blanket, “The _fuck_ ,” ah yes, the question du jour, “Is going on.” He glares up at me, eyes aflame.

I carefully weigh the wisdom of demystifying the situation to John now, against my brother’s potential rage at my doing so without his attendance. Hm. “Perhaps it would behoove us,” I begin, “to wait until you are feelin-”

“Tell _._ Me _. Now._ ”

I subconsciously lean back at the pure malice in his voice. Ah, yes. That would be the other reason my brother is so _obsessed_ with this man. Same reason he collected black widows in a shoe box the summer of ‘87. Our dear Sherlock, always so enamoured of _danger_.

I straighten my posture and suck in a breath, clicking my tongue. “We made a slight… miscalculation.”

His eyes flutter closed at my usage of the word _we_ , and I know what his next question will be. _“_ Is Sh-…” he interrupts himself with a deep, gasping breath. “Is Sherlock alive.”

It occurs to me that, for a man like John - interesting, yes, but still quintessentially _normal -_ this situation could be quite… damaging. Four years ago, Sherlock seemed entirely prepared to accept the consequences of his decision. I am not so sure now.

“Yes, John,” I murmur at length. “Sherlock is alive.”

His lungs seem to collapse on the gust of air he blows out, and his shoulders slump forward.

“Moriarty gave him an ultimatum,” I continue, “on the roof of St. Bart’s. Either Sherlock jumped,” John flinches at the word, “or Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, and you…” I pause until he looks up at me, eyes glassy and defeated, “… would die.” His eyes clench tight again, and I purse my lips. “Fortunately, we had a contingency plan for such a circumstance,” I say, “and we were able to-”

“Where has he been,” John interrupts, voice barely above a whisper. He looks up at me, eyes imploring. “It’s been four _years_ , Mycroft. Where has he been? Why didn’t he come back?”

Ah yes. Four years is quite a long time, isn’t it. I swallow thickly and dip my head. “Moriarty’s web was-” vast, endless, “- _extensive_. And even with him dead, the only way to quell the threat he posed to you, me, Sherlock, _everyone_ , was to eliminate every element of his syndicate.”

John shakes his head incredulously. “So, what, Sherlock’s been-” he scoffs, “-clandestinely _crime-fighting_ for four years?”

Would that it were quite that simple. “In a manner of speaking, yes,” I allow.

He breathes out a forlorn little laugh and nods. “‘Course he was,” he murmurs defeatedly.

Yes, this most _definitely_ could have gone better. “He returned to London several weeks ago,” I explain, “with the intent of eliminating Moriarty’s last remaining alliance. His right hand man, as it were, one Colonel Sebastian Moran.” I shall so enjoy compressing his file.

John glances up at me, curiosity piqued. “He was here in London? Moran?”

I nod slowly. “Yes. Surveilling you,” I add, tone matter-of-fact.

“Me?” John repeats, brow furrowing in confusion. “Why?”

That, that right there, is the only reason I have allowed my brother’s silly infatuation to continue. Fool that John is, he doesn’t know his position, the power he has, the advantage he could very easily take of my brother. He could destroy Sherlock, if he wanted to, if he _knew._ But John, silly ordinary John, has not a clue.

I purse my lips. “Had you given any indication that you knew Sherlock’s whereabouts,” I begin, and notice his face slacken in realisation. I needn’t continue, but- “Moran very likely would have-”

“Extracted it, yeah,” John interrupts. “Got it.”

“Precisely,” I confirm. “Which brings me to my next point.” He looks up at me, and there’s a tinge of dread in his face that blossoms when I murmur, “… Scott Ford Williams.”

His eyes shift out of focus, and he sways slightly in his seat, flesh turning a sickly white. “Th-the…” he stammers and trails off before trying again, “The man I-” he sucks in a breath, clenching his jaw hard.

I take pity on him. “Scott Ford Williams is a schoolteacher from Dorset,” I clarify, staring meaningfully into his eyes.

His brow furrows, and I realise he does not understand. Unsurprising. “Is he-” he starts, voice wavering, “I- did I-”

Ah. It seems Sherlock was every bit as thorough as he claimed he’d be. More explanation necessary, then. “He’s on holiday,” I interject. “Been in New Zealand for the past month. At my behest,” I add. And my personal expense. Ugh.

John shakes his head, eyes fluttering. Yes, I suppose this would be rather difficult for him to grasp. “New Z- how- I don’t…” a thick swallow, “I don’t understand.”

I imagine you don’t, dear John. Hm. How to put it simply… Ah, yes. “Had Moran captured you,” I begin and lean forward in my seat, “he would have extracted any information you had on Sherlock.” He nods, and I tip my head in relief; that much, at least, is clear to him. “Similarly,” I continue, “had Moran captured _Sherlock_ ,” yes, there’s the dawning understanding now, “he would have extracted any information Sherlock had on-”

“You,” John whispers. I smile slightly; there’s that sliver of higher intelligence that sets him apart from his peers.

“Yes,” I confirm. “Sherlock has acquired a great deal of intelligence these past four years pertaining to myself and my role in this country’s national security.” Unfortunate, but necessary. “Had Moran come in to this data, the results would be… disastrous, I’m afraid.” An understatement to say the least. “So,” I continue, “we established a failsafe.”

John’s brow dips further, and his eyes flick side to side. “A failsafe,” he repeats.

“Yes.” I suck in a short breath. “Should Sherlock be captured, he would simply enter a particular room in his mind palace.” I lower my voice meaningfully. “A room, which contained only one thing.”

John stares at me blank-faced for a moment, and I understand his confusion; the rooms of Sherlock’s palace tend to contain innumerable things, most of them odd and of mysterious, if any, use. A room containing only one item, then, is odd, out of place, separate from the others…

I see the light of realisation in his eyes, and I believe he has come to the correct conclusion. Well done, Dr. Watson.

“Scott Ford Williams,” he whispers, and it sounds like a revelation. I suppose it is, actually.

“Yes,” I reply softly. I admit to some surprise at the immediacy of his understanding; it is a complex thing Sherlock has done, something very few people in the world could have managed. Though, I suppose John has always had the utmost belief in Sherlock’s abilities.

“Once Sherlock entered that room,” I continue, “once he _became_ Scott Ford Williams, he would be useless to Moran, as he would possess none of Sherlock’s knowledge - on me or anything else of import.” John blinks rapidly and dips his head in a nod. I return the gesture and go on, “We selected Mr. Williams for one reason: he-”

“He looks like Sherlock,” John finishes.

“Exactly,” I nod. “While it is within my power to, shall we say, _create_ a person like Scott Williams - forge a birth certificate, licenses, education and job history, et cetera - my interference does leave certain… _markers_.” An unfortunate state of affairs that I’m currently working to correct. “Markers that an agent as-” _admittedly_ , “-intelligent and experienced as Colonel Moran would be able to identify.”

John nods and clarifies, “He would have known you created an alter-identity for Sherlock.”

“Correct.”

He nods again then pauses, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. “And that’s why you chose a real person?” he asks.

“Mm,” I hum in affirmation. “If Moran were to check certain sources - anything from Facebook to birth records - there would be no evidence that I had tampered with them-”

“Because you hadn’t,” he interjects.

I nod, “Because I hadn’t, yes. Given that, Moran would be hard-pressed to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the man he had captured _wasn’t_ Scott Ford Williams.” John’s head tips back and he sucks in a breath. Yes, I suppose it is a lot to take in. “We had hoped,” I go on, “that this knowledge might save, or at least prolong, Scott’s - _Sherlock’s_ \- life. Moran may have been less likely to draw unwanted attention to himself by killing an innocent man,” I say, tilting my head to the side, “a man with a family and a social presence - people would be looking for him.”

John is nodding, the movement tiny, quick, and continuous. It’s possible he’s still in shock. I can’t imagine that this topic of conversation is doing anything other than exacerbating his state, but… well, he _did_ demand to be told.

“And of course _that_ ,” I say, tucking my chin to my chest, “is where we miscalculated.”

The movement of John’s head halts, and he stares empty-eyed at the glass-top table between us. He’s silent and still for a long moment, then his eyes fall shut on a sigh. “Moran never captured Sherlock,” he whispers. “… _I_ did.” Another unforeseen turn of events. A surprisingly fortunate situation for Sherlock, but an endlessly terrible one for John. “I-” he cuts himself off with a slight choking sound, then shakes his head. “I grabbed him from behind during a power outage at the tube station,” he finishes.

Movement in my peripheral vision has my eyes flicking to the door. A familiar silhouette is just barely visible through the crack. Impeccable timing, as always.

My eyes cut back to John, and I nod. “Yes,” I murmur, tone circumspect. “And unfortunately, in this particular circumstance, my brother’s excellent reflexes did him a disservice,” I say, pursing my lips. “From the moment you grabbed him, he _was-_ ”

“Scott Ford Williams,” John breathes out.

Another nod. “Yes,” I affirm.

The door several meters behind John opens slowly, silently, and my brother steps inside. I take a moment to study him. Aside from the truly _appalling_ red hair, he looks much the same as always, only… Only that’s not quite true, is it? He’s thinner (ugh, of _course_ he is), his cheekbones not simply pronounced, but _sharp_. His whole body looks frail, almost wispy, and he looks terribly strange in dark jeans and a blue button down - Scott’s clothes. His hands look strange too, the knuckles knobbier than usual, and his violin calluses gone entirely. There’s grime under his fingernails.

Oddest, though, are his eyes. Sunken in and slightly bloodshot, they’re wide and glassy and full of something I’ve never seen before, something for which I can hardly summon a name-

“At the storage facility-” John’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and my eyes flick back to him. Sherlock stands at the door, lips bitten, eyes glued to John’s back. “At the end,” John continues, “he was-” he shakes his head in bemusement, “I could swear he was- was _himself_ again,” he says, looking up at me in bewilderment. “I- how did-”

“Vatican cameos.”

John’s head jerks to the side, eyes going wide. He doesn’t look over his shoulder, though I’m sure he knows what - or rather _who_ \- he will see. Four years since he’s heard Sherlock’s voice - well, not counting his time with _Scott_ \- but I hardly think he’s forgotten the sound of it.

Sherlock’s eyes are still settled, wide and unblinking, on John. He steps cautiously forward, making his way around the settee to stand next to the table between John and myself. John’s eyes finally - _finally_ \- flick up to Sherlock’s, and I feel a tension in my stomach as the room suddenly feels several degrees cooler.

Sherlock swallows audibly, sunken eyes riveted to John’s. “In the event that I - _Scott_ \- survived,” he murmurs, voice gravelly and oddly… uncertain? “… the only way for me to exit the room I created for him in my mind palace was with a.. a codeword. … A codeword only two people in the world know.”

John stares blankly at him, his expression closed off in a way that even I cannot read. “Vatican cameos,” he whispers.

Sherlock nods. “Yes.”

John nods slowly, and slides the blanket off of his lap, setting it on the cushion next to him. He leans forward, pushing himself slowly to his feet. My eyes flick back and forth between them as John takes one, two, three steps toward Sherlock, until they’re barely a foot from one another.

Sherlock bites his lip for a second, then smiles awkwardly. “Rather fortuitous timing, that,” he says, faux-wryly. Oh my dear, dear brother. Did you think he would simply fall into your arms? “Well done, J-”

John punches him in the face.

The action is so quick and unexpected that I barely see him move. I suck in a breath, watching as Sherlock brings his hand to his face, tapping softly at the skin around his bloodied nose. I rise slowly, making a gesture to Anthea, who has appeared in the doorway. She nods and disappears.

Sherlock removes his hand from his face and, foolishly, reaches out toward John. He looks just as he did as a child - bloodied, bewildered, hurt, and so terribly confused as to why someone wouldn’t appreciate his insight.

“John-”

John punches him again.

Sherlock’s head jerks sharply to the side, and an arc of blood splatters the table and settee. Anthea reappears at the door, two large, hulking guards behind her. I glance at John and wonder briefly if these men will be able to subdue him.

John lands an open-handed slap to Sherlock’s face, then a hard punch to his chest, and I step out of the fray as the two guards attempt to tear John away. It’s a bit of a struggle, and one of the guards catches an elbow to the face in John’s wild aggression. The guard staunches his bleeding nose with one hand while pushing John backwards with the other.

“Get off, get _off of me!_ ” John yells, shrugging his way out of their grip. My body jerks in preparation to stand between him and my brother, but he doesn’t move toward Sherlock.

Instead, he raises his arm, pointing a shaking finger and staring Sherlock dead in the eye.

“Go to hell,” he growls, and drops his hand to his side.

Sherlock shakes his head and takes a halting step forward. “John, I-”

“ _Don’t_ ,” John hisses, and the spectre of his sadness, his betrayal, his _rage_ is truly terrifying. I feel myself flinch back. “You just,” he continues, eyes still boring into Sherlock’s. “You stay away from me. I ca- I just-” his respiration rate picks up, eyes losing focus, “I can’t- can’t-” he shakes his head spasmodically and sucks in a gasping breath, “ _Jesus Christ_ ,” he breathes out, turns around, and walks straight out the side door.

“John, wait. _Wait!_ ” Sherlock calls, stepping after him. The guard with the bleeding nose blocks his way, and Sherlock glares at him, then looks over at me. “You can’t-”

“Let him go,” I interrupt, and his brow curls in incredulity.

“‘Let him g-‘? Moran is still-”

“Moran is dead,” I say calmly, and glance at Anthea. She nods her head and gestures at the guards to leave. She follows them to the door, then glances at me over her shoulder, a question in her eyes. I shake my head, no, and she nods once, walks out, and shuts the door behind her.

A godsend, that wom-

“Dead,” Sherlock whispers.

I glance over at him and - ugh, he’s getting blood _everywhere_. I huff out a sigh and gesture for him to sit. He clenches his jaw and walks gingerly to the settee, settling himself precisely where John sat. His eyes fall to the still folded wool blanket.

“Yes,” I confirm. “Moran is dead.” I await the compression of his file with glee.

“H-…” Sherlock shakes his head and peers up at me. “How?”

I step around the table and reclaim my seat on the sofa. “We were rather unsuccessful in finding your location after you were abducted,” I begin, crossing my legs. “We assumed Moran had captured you.” A fair assumption, at the time. “It wasn’t until John used your mobile to call to Anth- _Anita_ ,” I correct myself, “that we were able to triangulate your location.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, shaking his head again. “How is _Moran dead?_ ” he enunciates.

I sigh in exasperation and fold my arms over my chest. “A calculated risk on my part,” I say, matter-of-fact. “I had evidence to support the theory that Moran had planted bugs on my surveillance team.” Irritating, but ultimately beneficial. “I hypothesised then that, once _we_ became aware of your location, so did _he_.” Sherlock’s head dips in realisation. “In which case,” I continue, “it wasn’t a matter of surveilling the storage facility, so much as surveilling all possible s-”

“Sniper holdouts overlooking the facility,” he interrupts.

“Precisely,” I nod, and it’s good to see he hasn’t lost his touch. I admit I was worried there, for a moment. “We were able to hone in on Moran’s position and neutralise him after he’d fired his third round.”

He huffs out a sardonic laugh and tilts his head to the side. “Would that be the bullet they just pulled out of my arm?” he asks derisively.

I raise my eyebrows, unimpressed. “Apologies.”

“John could have been killed,” he posits.

“John wasn’t the target.”

A growl. “ _I_ could have been killed.”

Tilt my head. “As I said, a calculated risk.”

He huffs out a breath and peers down at his hands. There’s blood caked onto his fingertips, drying a sickly brown. Grotesque.

“John,” he whispers. “I-.. I need to speak to John.”

I shake my head, leaning back against the sofa. “You need further medical attention,” I counter. While his injuries don’t look too severe, he’ll need to have his nose set, for one, and it’s possible John may have fractured one or two of his ribs with that last hit. Then of course, there’s the fact that- “You also need to give your statement for the record.”

“I _need_ ,” he bites out. “To speak. To _John_.”

I blow out a weary sigh and smile at him sadly. My silly sentimental brother, who understands absolutely _nothing_ about sentiment.

“He needs time, Sherlock,” I murmur. He looks up at me, and I can barely distinguish the broken thirty-seven-year-old man before me from the bewildered nine-year-old boy that still lives inside of him.

I sigh again. My dear, silly, precious little brother. “Give him time.”

—

Perhaps the most interesting part of my (so-called) brilliant _plan_ was that, in practice, it wouldn’t have actually _worked_.

Silly, really. I had allowed those four (long, grueling, exhausting, _traumatising_ \- **delete** ) years to overrun the cool, sharp accuracy of my logic with useless, imprecise _sentiment_. Had I not been quite so eager to return to London ( _John_ ) - had I taken a moment to _think_ , for god’s sake - I would have realised that the idea I proposed to Mycroft - the _illegal move_ , as it were - was not actually possible.

By the very nature of existing within _my_ mind palace, the contents of that room - _Scott Ford Williams_ \- could never be entirely separate from _me_. There would always be echoes of me ringing through the air, coming in through the keyhole, seeping up through the floorboards.

And seep, I did.

 _Scott Ford Williams_ never suffered bouts of depersonalisation. _Scott Ford Williams_ was never called by his second name. _Scott Ford Williams_ never had a cat called Schrodinger. And _Scott Ford Williams_ never loved John Watson.

Frankly, _Scott Ford Williams_ is terribly _boring_.

It’s been twenty-three days since Sebastian Moran was killed. Forty-eight days since I returned to London. Sixty-six days since John became a widower. Three hundred and seventy-one days since he was married. Thirteen hundred days exactly since I stepped off the roof of St. Bart’s.

It’s been long enough. I raise my hand, knock on the door.

I hear a creak and a grumble as John rises from the sofa, and a soft patter as he walks barefoot across the floor. He’s in the sitting room. Now the hallway. Now the foyer. And…

The door swings open, and there is John. John. _John._

He looks slightly better than the last time I saw him. He’s gained six pounds (gone up a belt-hole), taken some time off work (no antiseptic smell or latex residue between his fingers), taken more pride in his hygiene (not a hint of stubble), and-

And he’s closing the door.

I slide my foot over the threshold, grunting as it’s crushed between the door and frame, and push hard against the door until I feel John fall back.

I throw the door open and stride inside, crowding John backwards. He reaches up to push at my chest, and I grab his wrists, press them against the wall on either side of his head. I’d prepared for his anger, written a speech in the cab, rehearsed it aloud (to the bewilderment of the cabbie). It would answer all his questions, clearly and precisely, explain everything, recount where I’d been, what I’d done-

I’m kissing him.

God, his _mouth_. So expressive with his mouth - smiles and frowns and smirks and laughs and little moues of annoyance or exasperation - but this, _this_ -

His head falls back against the wall with a dull thud, and I press my mouth harder against his. I’ve not done much of this, have very little practical experience, and I’m pressing my tongue too far in, but I don’t care, I don’t _care_ , and he groans and I can feel it, _feel_ _it_ in every part of me, from my palate to my loins to the tips of my toes, I want to crawl inside of him, lay myself against his skeleton, connect his heart to mine with a Pirastro Tonica E-string-

He pulls his head sharply to the side, and our lips separate with a soft _pop_.

“Vatican cameos,” he whispers, pressing himself back against the wall.

I shake my head and rub my cheek against his. “I’m not Scott,” I whisper back, then cover his mouth with mine again.

He sighs, and I can taste his breath. “Sherlock,” he murmurs, muffled against my lips. “I can’t-”

I pull back, just slightly. “Can’t what,” I breathe out.

He shakes his head, then tips it forward until his forehead presses against my sternum. I bury my face in his hair.

“My entire _life_ ,” he whispers, “is… _ruined._ Sherlock.” He sucks in a thick, wet breath. “Everything is-”

No. No, not ruined. Just broken. “I’ll fix it,” I murmur against his scalp. “I’ve done it before.”

He gurgles a thick laugh, and sniffs. There’s a wet spot forming on my shirt, I can feel it sticking to my clavicle.

He lifts his head, peering up at me, and his eyes are shiny, glazed with defeat. “How am I supposed to forgive you for this?”

I rub the tip of my nose across his forehead, then lean slightly back to look into his eyes. “You don’t need to forgive me,” I whisper back. “I’m not apologising.”

His eyes squeeze tightly shut, and he chokes out a breath. “Jesus Chr-”

He tries to pull away, but I squeeze his wrists hard and lean my full weight against him. “Everything I have done,” I whisper urgently, “ _everything_ , has been to keep you _alive._ ” Nothing I wouldn’t do, _nothing_. I would have jumped - even with nothing to catch me, with nothing to break my fall but cold, wet pavement - I would have jumped in an _instant_ , if it meant you would live.

He’s looking up at me with an odd, hollow expression.

“Alive,” he repeats, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself. “Is that what I am?”

I kiss him again, softly now, giving him my breath as I’ve done these past four years, as I’ve _always_ done, and he sags back against the wall.

Let go of his wrists, slide my hands up to twine my fingers with his. “… _Yes._ ”

—

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by my boyfriend, who was only slightly weirded out by the subject matter. Props to him, I guess ;). Not britpicked, so let me know if something feels out of place.
> 
> Special thanks to the Holmestice mods, who helped me deal with html/tagging/techy shit that would have had me at sea without their input, and for giving me a one day extension because I am clinically incapable of doing anything in the allotted time. Thanks all!
> 
> This is a gift for trickybonmot, as a part of the Holmestice Gift Exchange Summer 2016. If you're looking for a way to challenge yourself as a writer, artist, or any other creative, participation in Holmestice is fun, rewarding, and a great way to make friends and get involved in the community. So if you're up for it, please join the Holmestice LJ and participate next season!


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